This wild, strange, miserable feeling
by bnanachild
Summary: Margaret Hale and John Thornton find their "relationship" the talk of Milton and have no choice but to marry.
1. Chapter 1

~Chapter 1~

"I am so sorry to bear this news to you," Mr. Bell began, placing a hand over Margaret's own, which trembled where it lay in her lap. They sat together in the Hale's parlour, the bright, flowery yellow wallpaper a sharp juxtaposition to Margaret's fear and anxiety at Mr. Bell's solemn tone.

"Please, Mr. Bell," she begged, "Is father ill?"

"No, Margaret," he replied, looking away to spare himself the pain of seeing her reaction, "he is dead." A wild cry tore itself from Margaret's throat, far from the gentle tears that Mr. Bell was prepared for. Margaret stood, causing her chair to overturn with violent noise.

"My dear-" Mr. Bell called, but Margaret could take no more of it. She ran from the parlour down the stairs and to the front door, not pausing for coat, gloves, or bonnet, heedless of the social impropriety or the cool spring air. Throwing the heavy wooden door open, she collided with Mr. Thornton, who had been about to knock. He grabbed Margaret by the shoulders to steady her.

"Miss Hale?" he queried, and caught but a glimpse of her pale, pained expression before another sob choked its way from her. She broke away and ran, not knowing where to go.

Mr. Bell reached the doorway in time to see her round the corner. "Quick, man," he called to Mr. Thornton, who stood looking after Margaret in shock, "she has just learned of her father's death and is undone by grief. You must be sure she does not do herself harm." John Thornton swore and set off after her.

Margaret unthinkingly headed for the cemetery on the hill – the one that had already swallowed Bessie and Margaret's mother, and soon would claim her father as well. Margaret threw herself down on an unmarked patch of scraggly grass, ignoring the way its dried stalks scratched at her face and hands, and wished for the hard ground beneath her to open. Finally, the tears came.

John Thornton followed the trail of surprised looks and gossip that Margaret Hale left in her wake until reaching the cemetery. Then, he needed no trail or compass, for her heartbroken cries echoed across the hill. He found her face down in the grass and dirt, sobs shaking her. "Miss Hale," he entreated her prostrate form, "allow me to offer my heartfelt condolences for the loss of your father. He was a good man and I shall miss his friendship."

Margaret had meant to ignore the person whose stomping footsteps invaded her private grief, but upon hearing Mr. Thornton's voice, she fought to compose herself. Slowly, her sobs eased and at last, she raised herself into a seated position, hiccoughing slightly from the intensity of her crying spell. John offered her his handkerchief as his throat knotted in pity at the sight of her red-rimmed, haunted brown eyes. She smiled, a false expression that failed to reach those eyes and stated, "It was good of you to come after me, Mr. Thornton. I apologize for this embarrassing display of emotion that you had to witness."

"Do not belittle your loss," he commanded, wishing he could do more.

She nodded, eyes on her hands where they lay on her lap, twisting the edges of his kerchief. After a moment, she whispered absently, "I am alone."

"You are surrounded by friends," he corrected her.

"Are you my friend?" she asked, glancing up and then looking quickly away again.

"I would think it a privilege to be called such," he returned, thinking that he would wish to be so much more than a friend. "Now it is getting dark; I must escort you home." Margaret nodded obediently and struggled to her feet, swaying with exhaustion as she brushed at the dirt on her dress. Mr. Thornton set his jaw. He longed to carry her in his arms, to fold her in their protection as she had done for him at the mill. But society cast out young ladies who ruined their reputations by such actions, so he merely offered her an arm and guided her home.

It made no difference. Miss Hale's emotional race through town with Mr. Thornton after her quickly became the town scandal. Every person able to escape their obligations attended Mr. Hale's funeral, not to pay homage to the man but to glimpse Miss Hale and note the careful distance that the Thornton family kept from her. Margaret did not even notice. She had held herself together at her mother's funeral in part to strengthen her father and in part because she had been able to prepare herself for her mother's death. Mr. Hale had died unexpectedly and Margaret found herself standing beside only Mr. Bell at the gravesite, her aunt and cousin being unable to make travel arrangements so quickly.

John Thornton knew the gossip and so stood carefully behind his mother and sister and brother-in-law and tried to focus on the ceremony rather than the sorrowing woman that he loved. His hands clenched and unclenched at the sound of her muffled crying. Finally, the service ended and Margaret turned away from the graves of her parents. The black bonnet and dress she wore only served to accentuate the fragile paleness of her skin and the redness of her eyes. She mutely accepted the heartfelt and not so heartfelt condolences of those that Mr. Bell guided her past.

When they reached the Thorntons, Mrs. Thornton stepped forward, as she and John had decided, and stated, "Our condolences for your loss, Miss Hale." Margaret nodded, her brown eyes wearing a glossy look as though her thoughts were a million miles away. She stumbled slightly and John put out his hands to steady her, withdrawing them as soon as he realized his action. The watching crowd erupted in whispers. John turned and led his mother to their waiting carriage.

"You must marry her or see her ruined," Mrs. Thornton admitted, when the carriage began to roll.

"She does not love me," he argued, careful to keep his voice low so that the driver could not hear, "She will not have me."

"Let us hope she will not," his mother stated, placing a hand on his arm, "And then her shame can be her own." John looked away rather than address her hostility and they passed the rest of the ride in silence.

He traveled the next day by train to London, seeking out a jeweler who would not be able to fuel the rumors in Milton. Once inside the small shop, however, John was at a loss for what to buy. Normally, a ring would bear the birthstones of the couple, but not having courted Margaret, John did not know the month of her birth. Upon the coaching of the jeweler, John selected an aquamarine for his birth in March and a stunning chocolate brown diamond that reminded him of Miss Hale's eyes. On the train back, he spun the ring around in his fingers and tried to push down the panic that rose at the thought of being twice rejected.

Thus, John Thornton again found himself on Margaret Hale's doorstep. Margaret turned red and fought the urge to close the door in his face when she answered. "I beg you not to expose me to more gossip and ridicule," she stated, soft but firm.

"The gossip and ridicule are in fact what bring me here," he responded, "May I come inside?" She stepped back, reluctant to give him entry. "I will not stay long," he assured her, "however, as you know, we are the talk of Milton. I would ask for your hand in marriage." He paused, then went on hurriedly, "It will still the gossips."

"You would marry me not for any fondness that you feel towards me but to silence the gossips?" she asked, in shock but trying to mask her hurt.

He would not have his love rejected again. "I would not see you ruined, Miss Hale," he said, evading her question, "unless, of course, you have another who would step in and save your reputation." His face grew solemn, his eyebrows drawing themselves together automatically as jealousy coursed through his veins at the thought of Miss Hale at the station, her arms drawing another man close.

Margaret knew his thoughts and quietly admitted. "It is generally against social morays in this part of the world to marry one's own brother." She had received news only days before that dear Frederick had safely reached his home in Cadiz and had cried torrents as she wrote in response to inform him of their father's passing.

"A brother?" Mr. Thornton asked, shocked.

"Yes," Margaret continued, "I have a brother Frederick who is forced to live in exile or be hanged for mutiny." She waited for Mr. Thornton to demand the whole story, but his only response was to run a hand through his hair, bewildered.

"Then you must marry me," he declared.

"Indeed," Mr. Bell added, stepping out of the front room, "It is the only way."

Margaret stared from one solemn face to the other. "Very well," she snapped, "I will leave you two _gentlemen_ to settle the terms of this match." Turning, she headed for the stairs, but was halted when Mr. Thornton called out to her. When she turned, he held out the engagement ring for her inspection. "Those are for couples in love," she stated, "I will wear a wedding band, but not that."

John Thornton nodded in outward calm. Internally, however, his heart was rent in two. He so hoped for love.


	2. Chapter 2

~Chapter 2~

The wedding took place four weeks later, as soon as the banns had been properly read. John's heart thudded at the sight of Margaret in her favorite blue dress, but heard the guests whisper about the lack of white in none too guarded tones. Besides that, the wedding seemed something between a dream and a nightmare to John, as he stood at the altar with Margaret Hale, soon to be Margaret Thornton, but she seemed resigned and would not meet his eyes. When the time came, they kissed chastely. 'Our first kiss,' John thought. Margaret looked away immediately, but John's lips burnt for hours where hers had touched them. After, they walked together under a shower of rice and he helped her into the carriage.

"Margaret," John said, both to break the silence and to feel her intimate name cross his lips. She brought her head slowly up and met his eyes. "You look so beautiful," he breathed, unable to stop the words.

She blushed from shame, knowing he felt obligated to make the remark. "Thank you," she responded, looking out the window at the dirty streets and soot-stained houses in anticipation of reaching their destination, Marlboro Mills. John watched her hands twist nervously in her lap. He knew at once her fear but could not address it when the coachman might hear. They arrived, and John helped Margaret from the carriage, then scooped her into his arms to carry her over the threshold. She gasped, not expecting it. The closeness, which John had craved for months, was ruined by the feel of Margaret shying away from his touch and the way she bit her lip as though to keep from crying.

Exhausted and knowing his wife to be the same, John led Margaret to their bedroom, which he had straightened that morning in anticipation of this moment. She hesitated in the doorway for an instant, but was unwilling to show her weakness, and entered. She took in the strange room, with its dark blue décor and walnut furniture. In the dimming evening light, it felt like a cave with a large bed directly in the center of the far wall.

"Margaret," John said, now that they were alone. "I know this marriage is not what you wanted." He made himself continue rather than pausing to force her denial. "I do not expect anything of you. The house is full of guests or I would remove myself to another room for you. As it stands, we must share a room for the night, but we need not share the bed. It is yours."

Margaret so wanted to take him up on his offer, but dutifully responded, "We are married now. We will share a bed."

He nodded. "Your things are laid out on the bed. I will call a maid to attend you."

"No," she responded, bringing up her chin and trying to seem brave and in control, "They are all long in bed. I can care for myself."

John nodded again, removed his jacket and untied his cravat. Margaret watched, surprised that he would be so shameless before her. He slipped his shirt over his head and his undershirt after it. She turned away then, fearful that the half naked man would notice her watching, but the image of his broad shoulders and strong arms would not disappear.

"I will leave if you would rather," John suggested. Margaret realized with a start that he had finished changing and stood before her in a thin white nightshirt.

"No," she answered, meaning to sound strong, but it came out as a whisper. John turned away to offer her privacy. Margaret began unbuttoning the back of her gown, from bottom to top. She soon found that she could not reach the very highest buttons. She bit her lip and turned. Mr. Thornton stood with his back to her, offering Margaret a measure of privacy.

"Mr. Thorton," Margaret called, hesitantly.

"John," he corrected, smiling as he glanced over his shoulder at her.

"John," she began again. "I fear I will need the help of a maid. I cannot reach the buttons on this gown."

He nodded and then offered, "I could reach them for you." Immediately, John regretted his offer, for he saw from the pressing of her lips and the way her deep brown eyes dipped away from his for a moment that she was not comfortable with the idea.

Unable to name a plausible reason to refuse him, Margaret nodded. She counted his footsteps across the carpeted floor. One, two, three, four, five. He was beside her and his fingers gently began releasing the buttons that kept her captive in the dress. The silky blue dress had always been Margaret's favorite, but she felt betrayed by it now as it made her come into such close contact with Mr. Thornton.

John tried to conceal his reaction to the job of undressing Margaret. Each tiny button revealed a bit more of the undergarments beneath and the smooth white skin of his new wife. He fought the urge to brush a fingertip over her exposed shoulders. Finally, she was free. John stepped away and again averted his gaze, releasing a breath that he had not known he held.

Margaret quickly slipped out of her dress and undergarments and into the nightdress that she found laid out on the bed. "Finished," she stated. Mr. Thornton turned. Anxious to avoid entering the bed that she had foolishly insisted they share, Margaret sat at the vanity and began to unfasten and then brush out her hair.

Tired from the long day, John climbed into bed, a bed he had never before shared, and watched with pleasure Margaret sitting at the vanity as if she belonged, her long brown curls spilling over her back. He relaxed, dozing slightly until he realized that she no longer prepared for bed but avoided it.

"Margaret," Mr. Thornton called, interrupting her from the frenzied thoughts and fears that consumed her. "Will you come to bed or shall I sleep on the floor?"

"I am coming," she replied, resolutely returning the hairbrush to the vanity, extinguishing the candle and rising. She made her own way to the bed. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Even short steps reached the large bed fairly quickly. Steeling herself, Margaret blew out the candle, climbed into bed, pulled the covers over herself, and turned so that her back faced Mr. Thornton.

"Good night, Margaret," he whispered.

"Good night," she replied.

Both lay awake in the darkness, adjusting themselves to the strange situation. Husband and wife lay utterly still, trying desperately not to accidentally touch the other. Eventually, however, the exhaustion of the day's events forced both into uneasy slumber.

John woke in the middle of the night to find that no-man's-land had been breached. Margaret in her sleep had snuggled against his warmth. Her gentle breath and unconscious abandon tempted him to fall back to sleep with her beside him. However, he remembered her reluctance to even occupy his bed and, not able to stomach the thought of her horror at waking this way, softly pushed her away. Then, consumed with longing for what might never be his, he rolled over and fell back to sleep. Margaret woke to the feeling of Mr. Thornton moving her and realized what had happened. She was relieved not to have woken in his arms in the morning, but also was surprised to realize her hurt at his rejection.

The next morning Margaret woke to an empty bed. She dressed quickly, fearful that she had overslept, but when she reached the bottom of the carpeted steps, the clock in the hall read only quarter past seven. After searching the parlours, sitting rooms, and library, Margaret determined that Mr. Thornton – John – must have gone to the mill. She felt somewhat relieved at not having to face him, but quickly changed her mind when Mrs. Hannah Thornton descended the stair.

"Have you quite exhausted yourself in exploration of the house?" Mrs. Thornton asked. "I suppose you will want it all redone in the cheap, bright papers to which you are accustomed."

Margaret's temper stirred to life. "You give me no credit, madam," she managed to reply calmly, "Had you asked me how I liked the house I might have mentioned some details that I admired. Instead you insult me and I can think of nothing but those items I found in poor taste." She turned and walked away.

However, Margaret could not long escape her new mother-in-law. As the guests woke, rose, ate, and left, Margaret was summoned a dozen times to wish the strangers well on their journey and to hear them wish her well in her new position. Finally free after the last guest, an over enthusiastic woman who insisted on being called "Aunt Sherman", wrapped her in a tight and unexpected embrace and then climbed into her carriage, Margaret fled to the library. She was browsing over the book titles when a maid entered the room. "Tea, mistress," she called, bobbing a curtsey.

Margaret forced a smile, set down the book she had just selected, and followed the maid down an unfamiliar series of halls and into another sitting room. Mrs. Thornton sat serving herself. Mr. Thornton was nowhere in sight. Margaret seated herself on the yellow settee opposite Mrs. Thornton's chair and waited to serve herself, more than willing to pass the time in silence.

"My son is at the mill," Mrs. Thornton stated, having seen Margaret's eyes sweep the room. "Unlike the gentlemen to whom you are accustomed, my boy works hard for his money. You would do well not to expect him to change his lifestyle for yours. Yours did very little to raise your parents in the world."

Margaret pressed her lips together at the beginning of the speech, her mind racing for the perfect response, but the jab against her parents left her speechless. Only a year ago they had been so happy together, now Margaret was trapped with Mrs. Hannah Thornton's sharp tongue and absentee son. She rose, fighting tears, and fled the room.

Unsure where else to find solace, or at least silence, Margaret returned to the library and absorbed herself in the book she had selected, a history of the West Indies, until the fading light and the same maid informed her of the nearness of the supper hour. Margaret wandered about until she found the room she and Mr. Thornton had shared the night before. There, she selected a new gown, a burgundy one that her mother had always said brought out the auburn tones in her hair. The maid, whose name she thought was Julia, helped Margaret to dress. Margaret found herself eagerly anticipating a meal with her new husband. Any change would be welcome after an entire day with Hannah Thornton. She swept down the stairs and through the hall, congratulating herself internally for learning the pathways of the house. A smile stretched across her face and for the first time today creased the corners of her eyes. "How kind of you to keep me waiting," Mrs. Thornton remarked, dryly. Margaret took in the room, noticing at once the two place settings at the table, with Mrs. Thornton sitting at one.

"Does Mr. Thornton not dine here?" she asked, forcing herself to keep her chin high and her eyes free of tears of disappointment.

"He often works too late to eat with me," Mrs. Thornton explained. "You did not think your presence would change our daily routine?"

Margaret mutely seated herself across from Mrs. Thornton. She half heartedly helped herself to a slice of roasted beef and some boiled potatoes.

"I am sorry to be late," John Thornton stated, hurrying into the dining room. "I did try to get away earlier but one of the looms broke and it took an hour for Williams and I to coax it back into working order. Good evening, mother." John stooped and kissed his mother on the cheek, then turned to Margaret. He hesitated, then nodded at her. "Margaret." He seated himself and Edward, the butler, brought out another table setting. John set about filling his plate, heaping it high with meat, potatoes, and vegetables. Finished, he returned to conversation. "How was your day?" he asked Margaret.

"Miss H- Margaret believes we should redecorate the house," Mrs. Thornton declared, coldly.

"Indeed," John responded, pleased that Margaret would take such an active role in the household immediately. "We will have to wait until the next few shipments are in, but I would enjoy hearing your ideas."

Margaret flushed and could not look up from her plate whose contents she stirred but did not eat. "Your mother is mistaken," she finally offered, "I do not seek to cause ripples in the house management." She rose stiffly, mumbled some excuse about a headache, and again sought comfort in surrounding herself with the written word. This time, though, when she browsed the shelves she found herself face to face with her father's copy of Plato. She pulled it from its place and pressed it to her chest. Without warning, sobs began to shake her violently. Margaret threw herself down on the settee and cried herself out.

Back in the dining room, John listened silently as his mother recounted and critiqued Margaret's every action. Finally, he sighed. "Mother, we both know this match was not her plan. She is an orphan who finds herself newly married to a man she does not love and in a household that she does not know. Margaret surely never meant to suggest that your décor is unfashionable or that I am ungentlemanly. As for my hours, you yourself have complained that too often I forget or dismiss the time and inconvenience you." He placed his hand over hers on the table. "You must try to welcome her and to soften your words and actions. Not everyone knows they are meant to guide growth in character."

John rose and went to find Margaret. He headed first to the library and smiled in triumph when he found her there reading. His smile died, though, at the sight of her red-rimmed eyes. "Margaret, are you well?" he asked in concern.

"Yes, thank you," she replied. She looked up as she spoke but immediately went back to reading, dissuading him from elongating the conversation. John understood the silent hint, but did not want to leave his wife alone when she was obviously upset. He chose his own book and settled down in a chair across the room. After a long day of work, however, John could not concentrate on the book. His eyes drifted closed and his chin tilted down. He shook his head, sitting up straighter and glancing over to see if Margaret had noticed. But again he dozed and this time the book slipped from its place in his hands and landed on the wood floor with a loud thud.

"Excuse me," he apologized, mortally embarrassed. "It appears time for me to retire." He returned the book to its shelf and headed towards the stairs.

Just as he quit the library, Margaret offered, "Good night, John."

Preoccupied with the sound of his name on her lips, John forgot to discuss sleeping arrangements with his new wife. As a result, when Margaret grew tired she did not know of any place other than the master bedroom that might be available. The thought of accidentally happening upon Mrs. Thornton in her nightdress was enough to drive Margaret to the relative safety of the master bedroom. She entered the room quietly, hearing with relief John's slow, even breathing. Slipping off her dress and undergarments, and pulling on a nightdress, Margaret hurried through the motions of the night before, jerking a brush through her hair and taking three giant steps to reach the bed, fearful of her husband waking to find her up. She slid between the covers and closed her eyes with a sigh.

John woke early, as he did every day. This morning, though, his view was different. For the second morning in a row he opened his eyes to a mass of brown curls on the pillow beside his. He realized with hope that Margaret had chosen to sleep in his bed. John then remembered that he had offered her no other options. Still, she had not found an empty room herself. Yet, her belongings still sat in his room. Back and forth John's brain flew from hope to reality. _Stop_, he censured himself. _You are a fool for believing she would so quickly change her affections_. Stepping out of bed, he splashed his face and arms with water, shaved, and dressed. As he tied his cravat, he caught his breath at the sight of Margaret in the mirror. Her lovely face was serene in sleep, one hand tucked beneath her head, and the covers were pushed back enough that John could not help but notice her gentle curves. He cleared his throat and quit the room.


	3. Chapter 3

~Chapter 3~

Margaret woke, again alone in the dark room, and dressed in a black shirt and skirt, knowing it was considered proper to put her mourning aside in celebration of her wedding but not feeling the celebration to outweigh the grief in her heart. She walked down the stairs and met Mrs. Thornton, feeling herself caught in an unending cycle. She ate very little and hurried out of the breakfast room before Mrs. Thornton could find something else to critique about her new daughter-in-law. Instead, Margaret fetched her bonnet and gloves, determining that a trip to see Mary Higgins and the Boucher children would brighten her mood.

Mrs. Thornton, on the other hand, had spent much of the prior evening tossing John's words about and had decided that she needed to give her daughter-in-law a proper chance.

"Just where do you think you are off to?" Hannah Thornton called, spotting Margaret heading towards the front door and thinking that they might visit Margaret's destination together in order to become more comfortable in each other's company.

"I am going to take a turn through the neighborhood," Margaret stated, careful not to mention her plans to visit some of the mill workers.

"If you are going out," Hannah qualified, crossing from the front room into the hall where Margaret waited, "you are to be attended by one of the maids or myself. As it stands, I am available to come with you."

Margaret sighed, feeling the cage tightening around her. Indeed, the walk through town could not have been more unpleasant, with Mrs. Thornton dividing her time between finding fault with the townspeople and their lack of upkeep and laying down edicts for Margaret: Her steps were too loud and fast for a refined lady. Her hat was a disgrace. She held her chin too low. Now too high. Her hair had been done exceedingly poorly. She smiled too much. She must not seem to sulk so. Margaret's head spun with the ever-changing directions she received.

Mrs. Thornton thought the walk went well. She was pleased that Margaret took her coaching in stride where Fanny would complain at her every suggestion and make no attempt to correct her posture, step, or expression. Indeed, Margaret's step was much improved and her expression amiable but not too friendly after only a few corrections on Hannah's part. When, after visiting the drapers, Margaret timidly requested the chance to visit Mary Higgins, however, Mrs. Thornton stopped in her tracks. Had this girl no concept of social propriety?

"Will your ill breeding present itself at every occasion?" she hissed. "Members of the working class are far from our equals and while as the daughter of a preacher you could pass such a connection off as charity, as the wife of their master, you no longer can."

"You cannot ask me - I will not abandon those who have shown themselves to be my true friends," Margaret declared, brown eyes flashing but voice and expression carefully contained, taking heed to the number of eyes now watching them from the drapers and the tea room. She nodded in their direction and continued walking, her heels keeping time with the harsh beating of her heart.

Mrs. Thornton followed behind, her mouth drawn into a fierce scowl and all thoughts of a growing relationship with her daughter-in-law gone. Any threat to John required immediate and total annihilation. "I will not see you ruin my son's reputation and with it his livelihood. You have already forced him into a marriage in which you were not his equal."

Margaret turned, causing her black skirts to swirl around her. "Not his equal?" she cried.

"Oh, aye," Mrs. Thornton continued. "You are the daughter of a gentleman. But a gentleman who left his profession, and a poor one at that, and died practically penniless. My son is not only a gentleman but one who built his business from the ground and by working hard has created a plentiful life in which you now take part."

"I would a hundred times over be at home with my penniless father than in your cold home subject to your cold tongue and your cold son!" Margaret declared, then left Mrs. Thornton gaping and walked back to the house. There, she shut the door to the master bedroom and did not respond to the summons for dinner or supper.

Again returning from the mill later than he wished, John found his mother supping alone. "Mother," he greeted her, kissing her cheek, "Where is Margaret?"

"She did not come to supper. I assume she is in your room," she responded, but would say no more, her silence one of righteous indignation. John ate quickly and excused himself, taking a plate up to the master bedroom. He knocked, but received no answer and opened the door.

Margaret had thrown open the heavy curtains so that the fading daylight stained the dark carpets and draperies with the colors of sunset. She stood framed by one of the windows, her own black dress similarly colored and one small, pale hand pressed against a pane of glass as if willing it to disappear.

"Margaret," John began.

"Mm," was her only response. She did not turn away from the window.

"Mother said you did not come to supper."

"Dinner or supper," she corrected, still with her back to him.

He took a step towards her. "Are you well?" he asked.

"I am not ill," she responded.

Pushing her hairbrush aside and setting down the plate on the vanity, John crossed the space between them and placed a hesitant hand on her shoulder. "Will you not tell me what is wrong?"

She finally looked at him, a strange emotion on her face, a mix of sorrow and anger.

"Margaret," he tried again.

"How can I," she burst out, "when it is this house, this life, this prison that poisons me?" She knew at once that without further qualification her statement implied John Thornton as the cause of her unhappiness, but the words were spoken and the damage done. In any case, her day had been so trying that she could not think of any way to lessen the harshness of her statements that would not have been a falsehood.

He jerked back as though slapped. "I had not realized two days as my wife could be quite so horrendous," he spit, his voice growing at once as cold as his mother's. "I will see to it that your things are removed to another room. Perhaps you would prefer one of the smaller ones that is farther from my own. Or better yet, allow me to remove myself from this room so as not to inconvenience you."

"I will not displace you," Margaret replied, wearily. And found herself watching as Julia and Edward and another maid she did not yet know carried her belongings down the upstairs hall.

The new room would have more sunlight, with its eastern view and gauzy shades. She approved of its mint and lavender coloring. Yet, Margaret found it even more disconcerting to lie alone in the large, cold bed than she had to lie beside Mr. Thornton the night before. She tossed and turned and finally rose to fetch a book from the library, pulling on a light green robe and slippers and tiptoeing past the master bedroom. Reaching the stairs, Margaret continued with more confidence but halted at the sight of the library door swung wide open and lamp light spilling out into the hall.

_This is my house now, too_, Margaret reminded herself, _I have the right to be here_. So resolved, she tightened the tie of her robe and entered the library. Mr. Thornton sat, still clothed, in the same brown chair that he had occupied the night before. One hand marked his page, but his head had tilted to the side and his lips were slightly parted in sleep. Margaret passed him, found her history of the West Indies, and would have left if Mr. Thornton had not shifted and shivered slightly before settling himself. She pulled the afghan off the adjoining sofa and covered him with it, careful not to jostle and wake him. Then, she returned to her room and found herself calmed enough by the rhythm of reading to fall asleep.

John woke, stiff but warmer than he expected after falling asleep in the library chair. Stretching, he realized that one of the maids must have come across him in the early morning, for a blanket had been pulled over him. His heart warmed at the kindness, but cooled quickly as he recalled his own bedroom waited, unoccupied. Rising, he folded the blanket, returned it to the sofa, and headed upstairs to prepare for the day. Through washing, shaving, and dressing, John carefully avoided looking over at the pristinely made, empty bed. He did not feel like breakfast and so, descending the stairs, did not turn into the dining room but walked straight through the front hall and out the door. Sunlight and blue skies greeted him, unusual for this time of year in Milton. For a moment, John pushed aside his hurt and frustration with his wife and breathed in the cool spring morning air. Everything was not quite so bad as it had seemed the night before. The mill was running smoothly. The cash shortage had been solved thanks to Mr. Bell's generous dowry for Margaret. And Margaret had only one – at most two – days on which to base her dissatisfaction. Surely she could learn to love him or at least to accept his love. Thus refreshed, he continued down the steps and across the mill yard.

The sunlight poured through the windows on the east side of the house and slowly crept across the blanket that covered Margaret. She woke warm and refreshed, delighted to find the sunbeams brightening the room. She dressed quickly with the help of Samantha, the maid whose name she had not recalled the night before. Margaret chose a black skirt and picked up the matching blouse, but sighed and put it back down again. Instead, she donned a blouse in the lightest shade of pink. Trekking the now familiar path through the hall and down the stairs, she turned left and entered the dining room. Mrs. Thornton was not there. Counting her blessings, Margaret sat down, determined to do justice to the delicious spread that waited. She had just poured herself a steaming cup of tea when footsteps in the hall alerted her to someone's presence. Margaret could not help but hold her breath and will the person to continue. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Only a few more steps would take them past the dining room. It did not work; the footsteps paused and then came through the doorway. All Margaret's good spirits fled. She simply could not face down Mrs. Thornton this morning. Turning to leave, she found that she faced Julia and not Hannah Thornton.

The maid, dressed in the traditional black and white of a house servant, bobbed a curtsey. "G'morning mistress," she said.

"Good morning, Julia," Margaret replied, a wide smile replacing the frown that had taken hold of her countenance only moments before.

"Beg your pardon for interrupting your breakfast, ma'am," Julia continued. "But Mr. Thornton appears to have forgotten his dinner." Here she displayed a basket covered by a white cloth that Margaret had not noticed she carried.

"Oh," Margaret replied, not knowing what was expected of her.

The two remained motionless for a moment and then Julia hurried on, "Would you like me to take it to him, then, mistress?"

Margaret now understood that Julia had expected Margaret to take charge of the basket. For a moment, she considered how easy it would be to simply answer 'yes' and have no contact with Mr. Thornton. _Stop being such a ninny_, she counseled herself, _You might as well see him now. It is not as though you can avoid him forever_. "No, Julia," she replied. "I will take it."

John Thornton's day, which had started off well, grew steadily worse with each passing hour. The shipment of finished cotton cloth due to Mr. Bradley in London in two days which waited in the store room had been stained by a leak in the roof and would have to be redone at John's cost and quickly or he might lose the man's future business. Then, two of the best mill workers, Garrett Boxer, who worked three looms, and Blanche Hastings, who worked two, had been discovered to be too ill with fever to continue without danger to themselves, the machinery, and the cloth they worked. John easily selected five others desperate for work to take their place for the day, but the payment of five inferior workers was still more than two superior workers. In addition, the new workers would be slower and their cloth of lower quality than those they replaced. To prove him right, one of the new workers, a woman named Annie, caught her cloth in the gears of the loom she worked and it ground to a halt. God Almighty, she was working one of the new looms! John hurried to fix the mess himself, unwilling to risk the new machinery to the hands of anyone else. He made it a priority to know his machinery inside and out from the moment it arrived. He crawled beneath the loom for a look at how deep in the gears she had managed to snag the cloth. Several words that his mother did not know he possessed in his vocabulary poured out. The cloth wound its way through almost every bit of the machinery, a feat he had not even thought possible.

Thus, after she broke her fast, Margaret took Mr. Thornton's dinner in hand and walked across the millyard and up the steps to his office …only to find it empty. She stood for a moment in the empty room, unsure how next to proceed, but then caught sight of Higgins on the floor beneath and went to ask him where the master was.

"Miss Margaret, or rather Mrs. Thornton," Higgins called in pleasure at the sight of Margaret walking towards him. He had to call rather loudly, as the machines hummed so that he heard it for hours after leaving work and it sometimes played in the background of his dreams. "What brings you here?"

"Just Margaret, please, Nicholas," she corrected him, and then asked, "Do you know where Mr. Thornton is?" Higgins shook his head and put a hand to his ear to signal that she had spoken too quietly. "Mr. Thornton?" she tried again. He nodded and pointed further down the row of looms, unable to accompany her because it would mean leaving the two machines he ran unattended. She smiled and touched his arm in thanks.

The woman, Annie, wailed in fear at the prospect of losing her place for her mistake and had to be held up by the overseer, Williams, so that she would not fall to a heap on the cold floor. As it was, her dirty blonde hair came free of its tie and spilled over her face. "Be calm, woman," John cried, half vexed at her noise and half at the mess he was confronted with. Her crying only added to the irritating thrum of the machines which grated a rhythm into his very bones. "Be silent or you will lose your place!" he threatened once more before disappearing again beneath the loom.

Continuing, Margaret realized almost at once where Mr. Thornton must be, for Williams, the overseer, and a crying woman stood sentry over one of the far machines from which protruded a pair of shiny black shoes. She walked up to the loom and Williams shifted the weeping worker so that he could touch his cap to the mistress. She smiled and nodded her greeting. Mr. Thornton did not seem to notice her arrival.

"Mr. Thornton," she called loudly, so as to be heard over the machinery and the sobs of the woman, "I have brought your lunch."

"Get that woman out of here!" Mr. Thornton raged, not having heard Margaret and having had his fill of Annie's headache-inducing weeping.

Margaret straightened in shocked anger, her face going pale and then blushing bright. She set his basket lunch down on the top of the loom and stormed back to the house. Williams looked on, unsure of his duty in such a situation. Did he need to inform Mr. Thornton of his wife's mistaking Thornton's meaning? How could he without interrupting the man as he worked on delicate machinery? Instead, Williams ignored the matter, hushing Annie and waiting for the master to finish.

An hour later, John Thornton gave a triumphant cry and emerged from beneath the now-functioning loom. Annie stood quiet by Williams. Hadn't he told the man to remove her? And Thornton's basket lunch, which he had forgotten, sat atop the machine. "Where did this come from?" John wondered aloud, but not loud enough to be heard.


	4. Chapter 4

~Chapter 4~

Margaret was gratified upon returning to the house to find that Mrs. Thornton had gone to visit Fanny and would not be back for dinner or supper. Feeling free for the first time since hearing her wedding vows spoken, Margaret gathered her cloak, bonnet, and gloves, and set out to visit Mary Higgins and the Bouchers. No sooner had she descended the stairs into the mill yard than the carriage rolled up and Mrs. Thornton stepped out.

"I thought you had gone to the Watson's," Margaret stated in surprise.

"My daughter forgot about our engagement and had gone out," Mrs. Thornton sniffed, lifting her skirts to hold them out of the dust. "I see that you thought in my absence you would ignore my wishes and again risk your character by traveling alone through the town."

"I-," Margaret began and then stopped, twisting the gloves she had been about to don. She had intended to go alone, not thinking of the wishes expressed by her mother-in-law the previous afternoon. "I did not mean it as disrespect to you," she finished. Mrs. Thornton nodded curtly and swept past Margaret up the steps and into the house. Margaret, unsure what else she could do at that point, followed, imagining the sound of shackles with every movement of her legs.

Hannah strode determinedly into the navy and scarlet sitting room and attacked her needlework, trying to drive out her anger before it again poured out at the woman – girl, really – who had the impertinence to first defy her and then shadow her through the house. Her needle flew through the cloth, stabbing through the fabric with an intensity born of the strength of her emotions. Hannah felt her heart hardening against the beautiful but obstinate and ignorant girl who sat across from her.

Mrs. Thornton's icy glare and tight lips, which both showed to advantage over the midnight blue cloth she embroidered, quickly drove Margaret back to isolation. She ascended the stairs, lack of proper food for the past two days making her head spin. Crushed by hunger and sorrow, Margaret climbed into her bed fully clothed and pulled the lavender coverlet over her head. Sleep, it seemed, was her only escape. She drifted listlessly in and out of dreams until a firm knock at the door forced her to rise.

John Thornton did not know whether it was unhappiness or stubbornness that led his wife to again forego two meals, but dutifully carried another plate up the stairs. He knocked firmly at the door and was about to enter when Margaret opened it, looking disheveled from sleep, the crease from a pillowcase evident on one cheek. His irritation immediately disappeared and he found he had to force back a smile.

Margaret had risen too quickly and against felt dizzy. She breathed deliberately deeper in an effort to erase the darkness that clouded her eyes despite the brightness of the room. Instead, her knees buckled and she heard the muffled clink of china breaking against carpeting and then felt Mr. Thornton's strong arms about her waist.

"Margaret!" he cried in alarm.

She shook her head as the feeling faded, and then stated, "I am fine."

Ignoring her, John half-supported, half-carried his wife over to the bed where he seated her. "Do not move," he commanded. "I will send Edward for the doctor."

"No," Margaret protested. "It is only hunger that has my body so betraying me."

"Then why do you not eat?" he returned, his frustration mounting again as his worry, too, increased. Silence. "Margaret." She made again the nervous movement of her fingers, which he was coming to associate with discomfort or perhaps fear; her small hands worked the cloth of her skirt between them. "Margaret." This time, he tilted her face up so that her eyes met his.

"Mrs. Thornton is – unkind in such close quarters," she finally admitted.

He sighed, releasing her chin then. So it was not his presence that she avoided. "I will speak to my mother," John promised, "She does mean well."

"Mean well?" Margaret's voice and color rose at this. "Your mother takes every opportunity to demean my family, upbringing, and character. Why yesterday she spent our entire journey into town berating me on the way that I walked!"

John laughed then, and Margaret stared up at him in surprise, both because of the unexpectedness of it in response to her anger and the way that it brightened her mood momentarily. Mr. Thornton smiled down at her, the uneven twist of his lips distracting her from her emotion.

"She did the same thing with Fanny," John explained, "Claimed it was meant to improve her 'step and expression'." He frowned then, "But since it makes you upset and uncomfortable, I shall speak to her at once. I will also try to determine a means of improving the dining situation." He turned to go but her next words arrested him.

"Why are you being so kind now?" she asked, bewildered by his transformation from earlier.

"When have I ever been unkind?" he asked, her words stabbing him.

"This very morning I brought your dinner to the mill and you told Mr. Williams to remove me!"

"I never-" John stopped. The basket appearing. Annie's presence despite his words. "I'm afraid there has been a terrible misunderstanding," he admitted, returning to the bed, seating himself upon it, and taking Margaret's hand in apology. He explained the details of his day as he had seen it and Margaret filled in her own experience. This shared moment refreshed Margaret. She smiled up at Mr. Thornton, who was taller than her even when seated. He returned the expression. Suddenly, the close intimacy of their situation struck Margaret and she dropped her gaze.

Watching his wife's expression change, John realized that she reacted to his nearness and quickly excused himself, saying he would speak to his mother immediately. _She does not love me_, he reminded himself as he strode down the hall.

Margaret touched a hand to the creased coverlet where just moments before Mr. Thornton had sat, smiling at her. How quickly he had gone. _But then,_ she allowed, _he does not love me_. She rose and began to clean the broken china and spilled food from the carpet, thinking it was just another thing that Mrs. Thornton would hold against her.

Hannah Thornton held a firm belief that children would eat when they were hungry and since Margaret acted like a child she found it infuriating that John took up a plate each night. Had it been anyone but John, Hannah would have rebuked him for his actions, which she considered to be rewarding the errant girl. Therefore, she was surprised when her John entered the sitting room with a look of worry on his face and crouched before her, taking her hand in his own.

"What is it, John?" Hannah asked, putting her needlework aside.

"Mother," he stated, "Margaret almost fainted merely walking from the bed to the bedroom door just now."

"She gives herself airs," Hannah declared, disgusted with the feminine wiles of her daughter-in-law. Oh, that she had never counseled her son to burden himself with saving that girl's reputation.

"No, mother," John pressed, "she did not act. Margaret has not been eating properly."

"And whose fault but hers could this be?"

"She said, mother, that you are especially unkind to her at meals." Hannah opened her mouth to protest, but John raised a hand. "I do not wish to hear either the blame of Margaret or defense of yourself. As your son, I know you seek to better her into a woman you see as my equal, but please believe me when I say that she is already my superior and I must strive to improve myself."

Hannah could not help but protest then, laying a hand on the ebony hair of her boy. "John, that is not so."

"I would beg you to consider your words before they are uttered. To treat my wife with the kindness that she deserves," he continued. "Please mother, do not make me choose between you, for it would break me." John squeezed her hand, rose, and strode out of the room and towards the back of the house.

Margaret carried the broken china down the upstairs hall, heading towards the stairs and hoping against hope that she would be able to slip past the sitting room and into the kitchen unseen by her formidable mother-in-law. From the top of the stairs, she could hear the conversation that spilled through the open door of the sitting room. "As your son, I know you seek to better her into a woman you see as my equal, but please believe me when I say that she is already my superior and I must strive to improve myself." She listened silently, standing still as a shadow, to the man whose ring she wore on her left hand. He appeared unexpectedly and headed back toward the kitchen, so Margaret returned to her room, absorbed by the conversation on which she accidentally eavesdropped.

John woke early, even for him, and found himself immediately depressed by the empty spot in the bed beside him. He dressed quickly, ate quickly, and headed to the mill, all the while so consumed with fear that his plan would not be well received that when he opened the door to a downpour of rain, it caught him completely off guard. Would it stop in time? Should he cancel? Undecided, he pulled on an overcoat and headed out across the yard.

Margaret woke and was sorry to be greeted by a grey morning complete with a drenching rain. She had felt quite brave enough to risk Mrs. Thornton's fury after John Thornton's words the night before and planned to finally visit the Higgins home. Now, it appeared that unless she took the carriage, which would deprive Mrs. Thornton of transportation, the visit was off. Selecting a black skirt and white blouse with blue and green pinstripes, Margaret dressed, although she felt more like crawling back into bed. She descended the stairs and entered the dining room only to find Mr. Thornton's dinner basket sitting on the table. Did he often forget it? She sighed. Perhaps by dinner time this horrid rain would stop. Otherwise, it might be a rather damp excursion to try once again to deliver his mid-day meal.

John sat in his office nervously counting off the minutes and glaring at the weather, which now included a driving wind that shoved the raindrops insistently against his window as if trying to push them through the slightly distorted glass. Perhaps she would not come. She should not in such weather. But he selfishly wished she would.

The grandfather clock in the hall chimed: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven. Margaret glumly set down the book in which she had been absorbed and considered again the drops raining down in seemingly unending succession. Perhaps she could send Julia. No. Margaret dismissed that thought immediately. She would not order anyone to go out in this weather. She quit the yellow settee, retrieved the basket from the dining room, and pulled on her coat and bonnet, thinking what little use they would be against such weather. It took two tugs on the moisture-swollen wooden front door to open it. Then, Margaret stepped out onto the marble slab steps, careful not to slip on the slick surface.

John spotted a figure leaving the house. Margaret. She was coming! His heart leapt. She would be soaked. Jumping from his chair so fast that he banged his knee on the desk before which he sat, he flew down the stairs and out across the yard with no thought to donning either coat or hat. "Margaret, stop!" he cried, causing Margaret to arrest herself still under the cover of the porch. He ran up the steps and halted before her, water soaking his hair and shirt and running down his face in rivulets. "I should not have-" he started, winded from the sprint. "I thought you would care to join me rather than my mother for dinner and so left a basket for two, but I did not mean for you to come out in such weather."

Margaret smiled, touched by his thoughtfulness. "It appears that I am at least better prepared for the rain," she pointed out.

He returned the expression, thinking how the tendrils of hair that freed themselves and whipped about her face and the pink of her cheeks from the cold only added a wildness to her beauty. "I fear in my selfishness I only realized at the last moment how ungentlemanly such a forced excursion would be."

"Nonsense," Margaret returned. "Shall we move our picnic indoors?" She shoved open the front door and stepped inside, removing the articles of clothing that she had only just put on. John, on the other hand, was forced to take off his shoes and stockings so as to avoid tracking muddy or wet footprints across the floor. Margaret realized, looking at his bare feet, that there now remained only one section of her husband that she had not viewed. She felt the flush creeping up her neck and across her face, quite unable to cease its journey to the top of her head.

John watched his wife go crimson as he, yet again, displayed his lack of refinement by baring his feet before her. Embarrassed, he hurried up the stairs to change and fought the urge to stay in his room and out of sight. But Margaret waited.

Determined to have a real picnic, in fact, excited by the thought, Margaret immediately headed in the direction of the library, her sacred space in the house. She pushed back the settee and chair from the center of the room and began unpacking the dinner basket before the fireplace. A creaking floorboard caused Margaret to turn. Her smile disappeared at the sight of Mrs. Thornton, staring horrified at the disarray.

"What-" Hannah caught herself. She longed to ask why the perfectly good table in the dining room would not suffice, but swallowed her words. "I will be going to the Watson's for the afternoon," she declared.

Margaret nodded from her place on the floor, still mute in surprise, and Mrs. Thornton swept away.

John walked down the stairs and into the dining room. Empty. The sitting room. Empty. Of course! The library. He walked into a transformed room, the chair, settee, and side tables removed to the edges of the space and the center bared but for the food spread out like a buffet. He lowered himself a bit awkwardly to the floor across from Margaret, who sat elegantly with her skirt in a perfect circle.

"Would you care for some food?" Margaret asked.

"Yes. A bit of everything would do just fine."

So she filled his plate and handed it to him, daring to tease, "Be careful. We would not want to break a plate." They grinned conspiratorially at one another.

A knock on the front door echoed down the hall. Margaret made as if to rise. "Edward will answer it," John assured her, beginning to shovel food into his mouth in what he could only imagine was a very rude manner. He knew already that the message Edward recited would take him from his meal and Margaret's company.

"Sir," Edward reported, stepping into the room with a slight bow. "Mr. Williams calls to inform you of a fight which has broken out among some of the workers which he fears cannot be stopped without your authority."

"I will be right there," he replied, and then hearing a small gasp escape Margaret's lips, he turned to her. "I am afraid I am needed back at the mill. Please do not wait for me."

"Should you return there without any support?" she asked. "Should you not fetch the soldiers to divide the men?"

"I cannot wait," John explained, rising. "They might damage the cloth, or worse, the looms." She reached out a hand as if to hold him there. "I will be careful," he assured her. But Margaret did not find peace in his words. Instead, her fear mounted as he hurried out of the room.


	5. Chapter 5

~Chapter 5~

Margaret stared for a moment at the abandoned meal surrounding her. She felt choked by the thought of it. Instead, her mind kept returning to the dangers of the fight and Mr. Thornton's trying to separate the angry men. She could not wait here. Only pausing to throw on her coat, Margaret ran across the muddy yard and into the mill. Shouting voices replaced the persistent hum of the looms. Turning the corner into the first mill room, Margaret found the fight. Men, women and children pressed themselves up against the walls, a patchwork quilt of humanity, trying to avoid the flying fists and bodies of the ten or twelve odd men engaged in the exchange of violence. Mr. Thornton, Mr. Williams, and Nicholas Higgins waded into the thick of it, trying to separate the brawling bodies. Nicholas was rewarded for his trouble with a blow to the face. Margaret screamed.

John heard a woman scream and jerked his head in its direction, trying to find the source. Margaret. Even from a distance and through the throng of people he could tell that she had gone pale in fright and stood far too close to the fighting for his comfort. "Higgins!" he called out, pointing at his wife. "Get her out of here!" Nicholas parted the crowd to reach her, took Margaret by the arm, and practically dragged her from the room. In the hall, he seated her on the stairs.

"What were you thinking, mistress," he asked, "rushing in to a fight?"

Margaret raised a hand to the growing lump on Nicholas' face. "One could make the same query to you, Nicholas," she replied. He laughed and then grew serious.

"Thornton and Williams need me just now, as they are mighty outnumbered. You must go up to the master's office and promise to stay there until you are got." He watched determination and stubbornness flash across her face. "You distract the master and likely will get him hurt by your presence," he told her firmly. Only after she nodded in understanding did Nicholas return to the first mill room.

Margaret did as she was bid and climbed the steps to the office. From it, she could see the mass of people, some fighting, some trying to avoid the fight. Mr. Thornton's dark jacket separated him from his men, but at this distance she could not determine how many of the multiple blows aimed at her husband hit their mark. The thought made her sick.

It took some thirty or forty minutes for John, Williams, and Higgins to stop the fight, tossing the pugnacious out into the rain to cool their tempers. Finally, John addressed the remaining workers. "There will be no fighting at my mill. Anyone who threatens my establishment with such ignorant, bestial actions will be let go. Is that understood? Then back to work." As the hoard of workers sorted themselves back into place, he clapped Williams and Higgins on the back. "Still all right to work?" he asked Higgins, whose cheek swelled so that it partially closed his left eye.

"Yes, sir."

"Well, take a break and then get back to it." John turned and wearily climbed the stairs to his office, nursing his own wound, which consisted only of bruised and bloodied knuckles unused to such rough activity. He found to his surprise that Margaret waited there, her face grave in concern.

"Are you hurt?" she asked the instant he entered the small room, rising from his chair and moving to him.

"No," he assured her. "This is the worst of it." He held up his right hand for her inspection and she captured it gingerly in her own, examining its surface solemnly. The entire appendage was swollen; purple bruises mottled its surface and scabs of dried blood snaked in and around the bones of the knuckles.

"You should have this looked at by a doctor," she urged, turning her worried face up to him.

He smiled at that. "There is no need. The doctor will have nothing to offer me other than an admonition not to do foolish things like separate brawling men."

"Let us at least go back to the house where I can wrap it," Margaret persisted, tracing a finger softly over the broken skin.

John replied, "I should stay. The workers are restless after the disturbance." He felt himself relaxing, though, at her gentle touch. He was tired.

She frowned at him then, a line of determination drawing itself on her forehead.

"All right," John assented, eager to be back in her good graces. They returned through the rain to the house and then down the hall to the library where they found their picnic undisturbed.

"Take the settee," Margaret insisted. "The light is better there for me to bandage your hands." She went to the kitchen and asked Molly, the cook, for a bowl of hot water, then sent Julia for some salve and clean cotton rags. Finally with everything gathered, Margaret returned to the library.

John sat waiting for Margaret's return, smiling at the thought of her caring attention, and then wondering if she would tend to Williams and Higgins with such fervor if she were able. Probably. What had she said when he had reminded her of her actions during the riot? _'Why there was not a man- not a poor, desperate man in all that crowd-for whom I had not more sympathy_._' _

Margaret entered, then, seating herself on the floor in front of the yellow silk and dark wood settee on which John reclined. She took first one hand and then the other in soft fingers, washed them gently, rubbed salve into the bruised and broken skin, and wrapped them carefully in strips that she tore from the rags. Finished, she retrieved Mr. Thornton's half-eaten plate, refilled it, and set it on his lap. "You should try to eat something," she coaxed him.

"Eat with me," he returned. And so she did, laughing a little at Mr. Thornton's first awkward attempt at using a fork with his bandaged hands. "This will never do!" he cried. "How will I keep up with the accounts with stiff, bandaged hands?"

"I have been told my hand is clear," Margaret offered, avoiding his gaze and hoping he would not belittle or reject her well-meant offer.

John watched again as Margaret transitioned from happiness to this strange nervousness. It was clear that she did not actually want this task but felt it her duty. "There is no need," he assured her. "Williams and I will manage as ever."

Margaret swallowed back her frustration and hurt and rose suddenly, intent on leaving the room before any foolish tears were shed. "I will leave you to rest now."

John let her go.

Margaret retreated to her bedroom and would have been loath to admit the number of tears that in the end did escape her. She collected herself and then returned to the library to clean up the ruins of the picnic, but found it already empty save for her husband. Mr. Thornton had fallen asleep, his poor, damaged hands carefully placed on his lap. Thinking of his shivers two nights before, Margaret again pulled the coverlet over him. This time, though, it woke him.

"Thank you, my love," he whispered, still half asleep. Margaret did not know how to react to that. Instead, she perused the shelves and found a volume of Greek mythology and settled into the brown armchair. Yet, she found herself watching the slumbering man more than the page before her.

"Excuse me, mistress," Samantha stated, interrupting the quiet scene, "but supper is ready."

Margaret nodded. "Thank you."

John did not stir.

Margaret pressed a hand against his shoulder. "John," she called. No response. She shook his shoulder slightly and again called, "John."

This time, he shifted and blinked his eyes slowly open, pleased to see before him the deep brown eyes and soft, pink lips of his wife. God, he did not deserve her.

"Supper is ready," she continued. "Would you like me to bring you a plate?"

"No." John sat and then stood, making to rub the sleep from his eyes before remembering the bandaged state of his hands. He escorted Margaret to the dining room, but excused himself soon after and went up to bed when he could not keep his eyelids open. Margaret finished the meal in grateful silence, having plenty of her own thoughts to consider. Love. He had said 'my love.'

Hannah Thornton returned to the house quite late, having been compelled to listen to each new piece of music that Mr. Watson had purchased for his bride and to admire every pattern of wallpaper that they were considering for the front hall. She made immediately for the second floor and her bedroom, thinking only of sleep.

"Mrs. Thornton," Margaret called hesitantly from her place at the library door. She had remained awake in order to inform her mother-in-law of the mill fight, knowing that if the tables were turned, she would wish to be informed of John's injury.

Hannah turned at Margaret's voice, her exasperation evident at having been halted.

"I apologize for bothering you," Margaret continued, "However, I wished to inform you as soon as possible that a fight took place at the mill today and that although Mr. Thornton separated the men, he did sustain some injury to his hands from the fighting." Mrs. Thornton seemed poised for flight up to her son. "It is nothing serious," Margaret hurried to assure her, "but I felt it best for you to know of it." Mrs. Thornton nodded and continued up the stairs. Margaret wondered at first if she had imagined the fear flashing through Mrs. Thornton's eyes at her words, but upon climbing the stairs to take her own bed, Margaret saw that the master bedroom door was ajar and through it that Mrs. Thornton stood with a motherly hand placed on her son's forehead. The sight made her smile.

The next morning was Sunday, the only day on which the mill stood silent. Margaret woke late after the turmoil of the previous day and so dressed quickly, knowing she would have to forego breakfast in order to attend church on time. She agreed upon Samantha's choice of a mint green dress with black lace and ribbon details but still selected her black gloves and mourning bonnet to wear with it. Heading downstairs, she was pleased to see that although Mrs. Thornton stood ready, Mr. Thornton appeared the latest riser today.

John Thornton found himself indebted to his valet this morning, unable with his stiff hands to so much as fasten a button without pain. He then walked down the stairs to find his mother, clad in her widow's black, and wife, still with some hints to her own mourning, waiting in the hall. He escorted his wife and then his mother down the stairs and into the waiting carriage, his mother clucking some over his hands, which he had rewrapped after considering the reaction of the churchgoers to the state of his knuckles.

Margaret thought the church sermon lovely, or at least would have stated that to anyone who asked. In truth, her mind wandered back to the few short days ago when she had stood at the front of this very congregation. How very different she thought herself from that girl. How many lifetimes of emotion she had undergone. And all without her parents. Margaret swallowed hard at the thought.

John Thornton watched the tears glisten in his wife's mahogany eyes, hoping she thought of the loss of her parents and not the gaining of a husband at that moment. He censured himself. It was cruel to hope for any reason for those tears. After the service ended and they had paid their respects to those who approached them, John stated to his mother, "Margaret and I are walking home. Please take the carriage." Mrs. Thornton nodded, her lips tight to stop the motherly advice about stressing one's self after injury from spilling forth.

Surprised, Margaret took John's offered arm, her little black-gloved hand disappearing against his similarly colored sleeve. He guided her past the shops of town and then turned left when she would have turned right, heading towards the cemetery. She breathed deeply to suppress her emotions, but could not contain them when John halted before the graves of her parents. His kindness and her own sorrow overwhelmed her so that she did not realize until John handed her his white kerchief that tears flowed down her cheeks. She pushed her bonnet from her head, so that it hung down her back and she was free to wipe at her face with the cloth. "I am sorry," she attempted, but he shook his head and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. It was too much. Margaret turned her face away from the gravesites, the one grassy, the other still fresh with mud. She pressed herself against her husband's suit coat and felt his arms come up around her.

Knowing his wife's grief, John expected the tears that cascaded down her cheeks and splashed from her trembling chin. He offered the handkerchief that he held, his heart unready despite his preparedness for the sight of her brokenhearted tears. When she tried to apologize in a small voice, John could not even speak for the emotion choking him. Nothing, however, equipped him for what came next. Margaret turned into his chest and pressed her face into him, seeking comfort. His arms automatically encircled her, absorbing the way she fit there, with her head tucked neatly below his chin. It took several long minutes before Margaret gathered herself enough to sigh and pull away.

Her face was distorted with patches of red from crying and the smile she tried to offer trembled pitifully, but John would not have spoken a word that might restart her tears. Instead, he guided her again in a direction she did not expect, ending this time at the Higgins' front door. John received his reward as soon as Mary opened the door with one of the Boucher children on her hip, for then a true smile lit Margaret's face. Mary invited the couple in, a little shocked, John thought, at his own presence. He sat contentedly as Margaret worried over Higgins' bruised cheek, chatted with Mary, and held and kissed each of the children. She became vividly alive in this setting, freed from the stresses of trying to fit herself into the Thornton household. This thought brought a bit of heaviness to John's stomach.

Margaret sat with young Anna on her lap, admiring the pictures that the little girl had drawn with charcoal on scraps of paper from the meat wrappings. "Tell me about this one," she coaxed the shy child, smoothing down the wisps of Anna's white-blonde hair.

"A bird," Anna replied.

"What does the bird do?" Margaret asked.

"Eats," the child responded.

"What does the bird eat?" Margaret tried again, patiently.

"Stew," Anna answered.

Margaret laughed aloud, her simple joy in the moment pouring out in the sound. She caught John's eye and found that he, too, shared her mirth, his smile wide enough to crease the corners of his sky blue eyes. Fifteen or so minutes later, Margaret rose, making their goodbyes and promising another visit soon. She walked silently beside John back to the house, reliving the visit in her mind.

When they entered the mill yard, John stated his intention of reviewing a few pages of accounts before dinner and so left Margaret at the foot of the front porch stairs. She smiled up at him gratefully. "Thank you," she declared. "You knew exactly what I needed today." Margaret then brought his bandaged hand to her lips and kissed it, and hurried up the stairs and into the house, leaving John standing at the bottom for quite some time before he continued on to the mill, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.


	6. Chapter 6

~Chapter 6~

When Margaret reached the house, Molly had just finished preparing dinner, so she hurried to wash up, thinking with regret that John would miss the meal after all. Thus, she was pleasantly surprised to find him at the table along with Mrs. Thornton. After grace, Edward offered the dishes to each of the three and Margaret smirked at the sight of John's ink stained fingers as he clumsily tried to serve himself a piece of ham. It must, indeed, have been difficult to write with his skin tight in healing. He caught her expression.

"Yes," John replied to Margaret's unspoken words. "I am afraid I really will be unable to keep up with the accounts until my fingers are more improved." He bent his fingers as far as he was able in illustration.

"I could help with the account books, John," Mrs. Thornton declared, frowning at her daughter-in-law for making light of John's injury. "Pass the salt."

"Thank you, mother," John returned, offering her the shaker. "But Margaret has already offered her services and I would be obliged to her if she is still willing." He glanced in Margaret's direction to ascertain her reaction to his query.

"Of course," Margaret assured him, experiencing both pride at being asked to take part in the world of his business and a bit of entitlement at the jealousy she knew to be coursing Mrs. Thornton's veins. The last emotion one of which Margaret was not particularly proud.

Thus, after the meal, John escorted his wife to his office and sat her down with the account books. At first, Margaret copied numbers as John instructed her, intent only on forming them neatly and placing them correctly in the columns. As she grew more confident, however, she began to notice the difference in the completed column, marked "Exp't Prof" and the one which she completed, titled "Final."

"Mr. Thornton," she braved while he waited for her to dip and blot the pen.

"John," he corrected her. "Yes, Margaret?"

"John," she started again, "Is this column expected profits?" John, his mind full just at the sight of her pretty head bent over his books, felt proud at her taking interest in the mill.

"Yes," he answered.

"And this is the final profit," she stated, more boldly this time.

"Yes."

"Might I ask why there is sometimes such a stark difference between the expected and final profits? Why take this one here." John bent so that his cheek almost touched hers in order to read the entry marked by her small, white finger. "You have made no profit at all on this, but instead have lost money on the venture."

"It is the human element of the business," John explained, recognizing at once the entry she had noticed. "Because we are dependent on a certain number of bodies and conditions, many things can go awry. For this entry, the loss is the fault of no one but myself. I put off having the storehouse roofing mended because I wanted to wait until we had more ready money. In doing so, I gambled with the safety of the completed cloth that we kept there and lost when the leaking roof not only dampened but also stained the entire batch." Margaret nodded, her concentration on the page a fascination to John, who rarely found anyone else so keen to discuss the ups and downs of the cotton mill business outside the mill owners in the town.

"And this is yesterday's loss in time after the fighting?" Margaret asked.

"Very good!" John praised her. "We did, indeed, waste money in wages during the time of the fight, but also remember the loss in product, as no one worked the looms."

"I understand," Margaret responded. And she did. As they continued through the accounts, the dictation of letters, and the working of figures, Margaret continued to pepper John with questions and comments regarding the mill and the intricacies of the business. John was so involved that it was with surprise that he heard Margaret exclaim, "Why did you not mention the hour? We will be late to supper!"

And so they were. Hannah Thornton made an obligatory remark upon the arrival of her son and daughter-in-law, whose faces and hands were still wet with hasty washing, about supper being best eaten warm, but said no more after spotting the smile that John could not keep off his face. She felt, for the first time, hope that she had not done wrong in instructing her son to marry and that Margaret Ha-Thornton might still bring her son happiness. Thus, she excused herself after supper to speak with Molly about the week's menu and left the two alone.

John and Margaret automatically retreated to the library, but once there found all the advances of the day erased by habit. They barely spoke as they sat in the room, Margaret absorbing herself again in Greek mythology and John turning the pages of Plato while watching Margaret.

"I never understood the use of Greek mythology," John finally offered, in an awkward attempt to create conversation. "Greek philosophers at least attempt an understanding of human nature and discuss the values of politics, government, and business."

Margaret looked up from her book but did not know what to say. Did he not realize that he insulted her intelligence by suggesting she wasted her time with her selection? "Mythology no less than philosophy is the study of human nature," she declared.

"Since when do the Greek gods bear any resemblance to humanity?" John questioned, rising to the debate Margaret offered and finding himself excited by the possibility of glimpsing more of the subtle workings of her mind.

"Are not the god merely manifestations of the strongest experiences and emotions of humanity?" Margaret responded, heating in confusion and frustration at his eagerness for a fight. "Aphrodite is love and purity. Zeus and Hera are at times love, at times anger and conflict. Dionysus is drunkenness. Ares and Athena are the emotions of war: bravery, courage, and brazenness."

"Nonsense," John replied, setting his book aside to concentrate on the debate. "The myths act as little more than bedtime stories. There are no morals to the stories of the gods. When is Zeus ever punished for his love-making?" He blushed at this and hurried on, "Or Dionysus held accountable for his drunken behavior?"

"Since when is life a moral tale?" Margaret argued, anger causing her voice to rise. "Do not some men go through life uncensured for their ill behaviors and others find themselves rebuked for actions not their own?"

She spoke of their marriage. Did she then truly consider it a trial? John found his heart had gone quite out of the debate.

"Do not good men and bad die alike?" she continued.

She spoke of their fathers. John felt then the rush of true fury at her willingness to condemn a man she had never met. He rose then, his face a twisted angry contortion that she did not recognize. Only the strength of her anger kept her from shrinking away. John opened his mouth to let loose the torrent within him.

"What madness is this?" Hannah Thornton asked, closing the library door behind her with a thwack. "Should we not cry from the rooftop that the young Thornton couple is having a spat? It would be no less likely to spread across the town than the raised voices to which the servants have been privy."

Both John and Margaret felt themselves deflated by her words. Margaret excused herself and hurried to the privacy of her room. John remained, ready to feel the sharp edge of his mother's tongue and knowing he deserved it for the foolish way in which he had coaxed Margaret into a confrontation that opened the entire family to gossip and ridicule.

"What happened, John?" Hannah asked, surprising him. "You two seemed so happy in each other's company during supper."

He hung his head but would say no more. In truth, he, too, mourned the hasty loss of the ground he thought he and Margaret had gained that day. Still, Margaret had in quick succession alluded negatively to the circumstances of their marriage and then insulted his father's memory. He heated at the very reminder. "I did and said nothing of which I am ashamed," he burst out.

"Tell me, son," Hannah begged, reminding herself to listen not with the ears of a mother but those of a woman and thinking to the early days of her marriage to the many misunderstandings that had colored those days.

John poured forth the whole of it, unburdening himself. When he finished, Hannah Thornton smiled. "Now consider it another way," she offered. "Could not your mind have made connections that hers did not? Could she not have been speaking of general examples that you took as references to your own life?"

John nodded thoughtfully. "I admit that this night I may not be fully able to consider her words a coincidence, but I will try to do so in the morning." He kissed the top of her head. "Goodnight, and thank you, mother."

Hannah Thornton waited until she heard his retreating footsteps beat their path up the stairs and then allowed herself a small chuckle. Young love was always fraught with such little spats.

A gentle knock disturbed Margaret as she prepared for bed. "Yes?" she called, thinking it would be Julia coming to settle her in.

"Margaret," John called softly through the door. "I am sorry for my angry words this night."

"And I mine," she replied, flushing again to think of her quick temper.

"Good night," John added, pressing his hand against the door.

"Good night, John," Margaret responded, unknowingly brushing her fingers against the same spot on the door.

Margaret woke with a start in the night from a dream in which she had at first felt herself pursued and then found herself falling from a great height. She lay for a moment shivering in her bed, trying to ignore the way in which the shadows of the night transformed her cheerful room. Her heart twisted at the thought that just a few months ago, even at the matronly age of almost twenty-three, she might have tiptoed into her parents' room and listened to the calming sound of their sleep-slowed breathing. Now she had no one from whom to take comfort and so headed for the only place in the house that she really felt was her own, the library. When Margaret had almost passed the last bedroom and reached the edge of the crimson carpeted floor, which in the dark looked as black as the sky from her window, she paused. Perhaps if she merely stepped inside the master bedroom for a moment the company of another human being would soften the fear and loneliness that enveloped her. So she gripped the doorknob tightly, twisted it, and eased the master bedroom door open just wide enough to slip inside.

Mr. Thornton lay in his bed, as was only fitting at this time of night. His sleeping form from her vantage point appeared an inhuman lump, but the soft sigh of his breath did comfort her. Step by step, she crept closer to the bed, wanting only to feel near another person and ignoring the warning bells in her head. Finally, she stood over him, staring down at the strangeness of his sleeping form, which she had only a few occasions of observing. In sleep, the sharp lines of his face relaxed as they did when he smiled or laughed. His body, likewise, did not have the same disciplined form. Tonight, one arm was flung above his head on the pillow and a foot peeked from beneath the navy coverlet. Margaret tugged the blanket back into place and then, when he did not react, traced her first finger over the knuckles of his nearest hand, feeling in the dark that the skin had begun to knit itself back together. Mr. Thornton stirred. Margaret flew across the room to the door as fast as she quietly could.

"Margaret?" John asked. In his sleep-hazed state, he did not doubt that he had felt her touch his hand.

Margaret froze. Ashamed at having been caught, she walked back to the foot of the bed. Growing more awake, John realized the strangeness of her presence in his room, sat up, and fumbled to light the candle on his nightstand. In the glowing light that followed, John inspected his wife's appearance. Margaret's long hair, tousled from sleep, as usual acted as a distraction for John, who longed to tangle his fingers in the silken mass. He quickly noticed, however, that her face was as pale as the simple, white nightgown she wore. "Margaret," he asked, "Is something wrong?"

Margaret shook her head, then hesitated, and finally nodded. John waited. "I-I had a bad dream," she offered, looking away for shame.

John reached out and captured her hand in his own. "Would you care to talk of it?" he asked. She lifted her chin in a distinctly prideful move so he waited silently, smoothing his thumb against the back of her hand. When Margaret glanced down, John watched her with pity and something like kindness written plainly in his eyes, which in the candle light shone as soft blue as waves tossed upon a rocky shore. Setting her pride aside, she nodded. "Come," John commanded, patting the spot on the bed beside him; so she sat. "Did the dream frighten you?" he asked, squeezing her hand, which he still held.

"Yes," Margaret replied, honestly, "yet I would have been fine had it not also made me homesick." A lump formed in her throat but she pushed it down, lifting her chin, this time to fight off the tears that threatened to follow. Interpreting her expression correctly, John pulled his wife onto his lap and encircled her in his arms as if she were a small child.

Margaret started at his brazenness, having never been so close to Mr. Thornton with so little clothing between them. After a moment, however, she accepted his action for what it was, a movement to comfort her. Margaret rested her head against Mr. Thornton's shoulder, listening for a moment to the thrum of his heartbeat. "I miss my parents," she admitted in a small, choked voice.

John sighed. "I know. I wish I could say that it eases with time." Margaret remembered at his statement that her husband had lost his father while still a young boy. She felt a sudden kinship to him in their shared loss.

Emboldened by the feel of Margaret relaxing against him, John reached up and brushed a hand over her hair. Margaret said nothing, so he continued the movement, enjoying the luxurious touch, almost tickle, of her hair against his palm. "Would you like to stay the rest of the night here?" he asked, barely able to breathe while waiting for her response.

"Yes," she whispered. Margaret stood, walked around the bed and crawled into the other side. John also lay down, carefully remaining still while Margaret arranged her pillows and blankets.

"Good night, Margaret," he whispered, when he thought she had settled. A small hand captured his own on top of the coverlet. He drifted off to sleep with a smile, holding fast to the hand that had taken his.


	7. Chapter 7

~Chapter 7~

John Thornton woke and to his delight found that the strange workings of the night before had not been a dream. Margaret, his wife, still slept beside him, her round face flushed with the warmth of sleep and her curls spilling loose over the pillow. John reached out and wrapped one around his finger for a moment. He rose regretfully and prepared for the day, slipping out of the room and down the stairs. Inhaling the eggs and toast that Edward brought him, John instructed the man to have Molly prepare a dinner basket for two and leave it on the table. Edward turned away from the master as soon as he could, pretending to smooth his salt and pepper mustache but in truth trying to disguise his expression. He hoped that his smile had not been apparent at Mr. Thornton's instructions.

All through the morning, John struggled with his work, not as a result of his stiff hands, which were actually much improved from the day before, but because he kept imagining that he spotted Margaret leaving the house. A thousand times he stood from his chair and then sat again in disappointment that his mind and heart had played such a cruel joke with his emotions. Was that she? John rose again and in his haste dropped the pen that he held. It rolled across the open account book, the ink leaving a track of dark teardrops across the entire exposed page which he had almost completed. "God damn it!" he exploded. Blotting the page, John realized that he would be good for nothing this morning, so eager was he for a continuation of the good relations between he and his wife, and thus determined to walk the floor below.

Margaret woke in the dark room and waited a moment for her eyes to adjust to the gloom. She turned carefully, afraid of jostling the bed, but found as she ever had that Mr. Thornton had risen before her. _Stop being silly_, she coached her aching heart, which longed to be greeted by another human being. After all, when had she ever woken to find another person in her bedchamber? Why did she expect to now? Suddenly, Margaret wondered how late she had slept in the unnaturally dark room. What if Julia or Samantha had come and found her own room empty? Imagine the rumors that would begin then! Not even stopping to consider that these were rumors typical of a newly married couple, Margaret hurried down the hall and into her own bedroom, posing as if selecting a gown when Julia entered the room only seconds later. Margaret wondered if her heartbeats, which pounded loud in her own ears, were audible to the maid. "Are you ready, mistress?" Julia asked. Margaret just nodded, still breathless from her run.

Margaret descended the stairs half an hour later in a sunny yellow, green, and red plaid dress that always made her smile. Her smile only grew wider when she entered the dining room and found the ready basket. It would be several hours before the "duty" of carrying the dinner to Mr. Thornton, but the thought of it brightened Margaret's day. She had barely seated herself at the table when Mrs. Thornton entered.

Hannah Thornton grimaced when upon waking she found that her toothache had returned. The gum around the offending tooth, one at the top front, appeared red and swollen and was painful to the touch. Hannah had complained once to her doctor and been told the solution would be removal of the tooth. Vainer than she cared to admit, Hannah would rather live with the pain than with the empty space in her mouth. _It is not vanity_, Hannah corrected herself internally as she stepped into the black dress that the maid held ready,_ it is strength_. Still, the aching soured her mood as she dressed and sat to have her hair fixed. She moaned aloud. "Did I pull your hair?" Agnes asked in concern, pausing her brushing of the long, straight black hair in which a few strands of silver merely served to highlight the rich color of the rest.

"No," Hannah assured the girl and the brush strokes began again. She had suddenly realized that Fanny would call today in polite reciprocation of Hannah's call two days before. Hannah did not believe she could survive another day, especially one where she felt so poorly, discussing music and wallpaper. Margaret! Thank God for Margaret. She could entertain Fanny this day. So decided, Hannah exited her bedroom, descended the stairs, and entered the breakfast room.

"Good morning, Mrs. Thornton," Margaret cautiously offered, meeting her mother-in-law's eyes only with great strength of will, ashamed as she was of her conduct the night before.

"Good morning, Margaret," Hannah returned, thinking only how glad she was to have Margaret there to free her of her obligation with Fanny. She scanned the table for the softest item so as to save her tooth from further agony. It was with some distaste that she determined porridge would have to do. During the long years of their disgrace, porridge had been a staple in the Thornton household, a cheap food that filled the stomach and lasted several days after preparations. As a result of its constant place in their diet, Fanny loved the stuff and Hannah gagged at the mere thought of it. Grimacing, Hannah reached for the bowl and scooped a gluey pile of it into her plate. She ate haltingly.

Margaret sat in silence, unsure how to read her mother-in-law's expression of disgust. She must still harbor anger over the embarrassing display of the previous night. Despite all of her mother-in-law's wrongful accusations, in this Hannah Thornton had the right. Margaret knew what she must do. "Mrs. Thornton," she forced herself to say, "I am sorry for my behavior last night."

"It is forgotten," Hannah stated, distracted in her self-discipline of her reaction to the porridge. She did not even glance in Margaret's direction.

_So she will hold it against me_, Margaret fumed, reading more in her mother-in-law's actions than her words; Margaret now felt sorry that she had given Mrs. Thornton the satisfaction of hearing an apology cross her lips. At least she would be able to escape to the mill and her husband's company soon.

"Fanny will visit today," Hannah stated, setting her empty spoon onto her empty plate in victory. "I expect you to receive her call with me."

"When do you expect her?" Margaret asked, dreading the answer she felt would come.

"Most likely in time for dinner," Hannah replied, confirming Margaret's fears.

Margaret felt her heart sink heavily into her stomach. "Mr. Thornton forgot his dinner and I had thought to take it to him," she protested weakly.

"Then take it to him now," Hannah returned, annoyed at her daughter-in-law's attempt to escape from the duty that Hannah relied on her to complete. She left the room in a swirl of skirts and retreated to the front sitting room.

Margaret laid her head on her folded hands in defeat, her nose pressing into the mahogany table top. A slight cough sounded from the corner of the room. She lifted her face and spotted Edward carefully situated so as to appear unable to see Margaret's actions. Margaret blushed. She hurried out of the room, only stopping to pick up the basket, determined to at least deliver it to Mr. Thornton's hands with an explanation as to why she could not join him. Just as she gained the front door, the Watson's carriage arrived. She froze, uncertain how to proceed.

"Come into the sitting room, girl," Mrs. Thornton urged.

"But-," Margaret held up the basket.

"Give it to the maid!" Mrs. Thornton exclaimed, waving her hand impatiently. Julia stepped forward and retrieved the basket just as Fanny swept into the room, her dress, bonnet, and gloves rivaling one another for the richest color and most intricate pattern. Knowing her own dress to be similarly rich in color, Margaret still found herself fighting the urge to shade her eyes against the brilliant hues.

"Good morning, Fanny," Hannah Thornton greeted her daughter, smiling quickly and then turning away to hide her pain when the expression placed more pressure on her tender tooth. She would have to avoid talking as much as possible; luckily Fanny hardly made that a challenge, immediately launching into a description of how much larger, brighter, and better furnished her new house was for the benefit of Margaret, who had not yet the pleasure of viewing it.

John walked the rows looms and noticed immediately several unfamiliar faces. "Williams," he called, spotting his overseer, and then continued when he approached, "Are many of the workers ill?"

"Aye," William replied, removing his cap as he stood before Mr. Thornton. "It seems the fever spread from Boxer and Hastings to several of those who worked near them. I took the liberty of selecting replacements as you appeared preoccupied with the accounts."

_I was preoccupied_, John thought, _but not with accounts_. He nodded and moved on. As he turned, he spotted Julia halfway up the wooden staircase to his office and stared incredulously as she dropped his dinner basket by the closed office door. Had he judged wrongly? Did Margaret still harbor anger from their hot words? Yes, she had sought him out in the night but only after dreams and sorrow drove her there. He returned to his office, crushed by the little basket that waited there for him. Kicking it slightly to the side, John opened the door and seated himself again before his account book. He busied himself with rewriting the page his ink spill had ruined, but did not accomplish much by the day's end and so stayed late, convinced that he did so to finish his accounts and not to avoid his wife.

Margaret fidgeted with her skirt, her cuff, a loose curl of hair. All the while, she kept her false smile pasted firmly in place. Normally, Margaret would have enjoyed Fanny's bright and determined chatter, at least a break from the silence or critiques of Mrs. Thornton. Now, however, Margaret longed to throw herself to her knees and beg Fanny for a reprieve from the constant onslaught of information on the material contents of the Watson household.

"My Watson has fully handed over the reins of the household to me," Fanny stated proudly. "And he says to anyone who will listen, although I have told him it is too much, that I have done a fine job indeed of bringing it to its full potential."

Margaret made some noise of assent, wondering how it would feel to so easily speak her husband's name. _My Thornton_, she practiced. That did not seem right. _My John_. Perhaps someday she would feel confident enough to speak the words aloud.

"Have you not considered your own changes to the house, Miss Hale – Mrs. Thornton?" Fanny asked.

Both Margaret and Hannah started at the unfamiliar use of the title. "Call me Margaret, Mrs. Watson, please," Margaret stated, unsure how to answer the question and trying desperately to change the course of the conversation.

"Then you must call me Fanny."

"Thank you, Fanny," Margaret replied. "Do you know I do believe that this piano has sat unused since your marriage? It is such a shame for the lovely piece to be so wasted. Would you do us the honor of playing?" She sighed in relief as Fanny rose to do just that. Thus freed of keeping up with Fanny Watson's monologue, Margaret turned her attention to Mrs. Thornton, whose silence confounded her. Surely Mrs. Thornton was not so angry at Margaret that she would risk slighting her own daughter with her anger. Then again, Margaret did not pretend to know her mother-in-law so well.

Fanny left the Thornton's home just before supper and Margaret rushed to change, hoping to have a chance to speak to Mr. Thornton before the meal began. Instead, she greeted an empty dining room. "Mrs. Thornton is not hungry and has retired to her room," Edward informed her.

"And Mr. Thornton?" she asked, hopefully.

"I am unsure, mistress," he responded, "Would you like me to send a maid to inquire?"

"No, thank you," Margaret sighed. She ate alone and quickly, considering the service of Edward to be highly unnecessary with only she to wait upon. Then, Margaret settled in the front sitting room, not her normal spot but one from which she would be sure to see Mr. Thornton enter.

John Thornton bowed his head over the updated accounts. He no longer checked the columns for accuracy but instead waged an internal battle. Half of him longed to race across the mill yard, find Margaret, and demand of her an explanation for the confusion of her actions. Yet, the other half did not want to see the tender figure of the night before replaced with the proud anger that he had so hoped to move beyond. "Coward," he accused himself aloud, donning his coat and taking his hat in hand. He blew out the lamp, descended the stairs, and crossed the yard, his footsteps sounding heavily upon the newly dried dirt. Perhaps she did not wait up at all and he would enter a silent house. But after last night, in whose bed would she choose to slumber? John cautioned himself against such hope. He entered the front door so disciplined.

"Mr. Thornton," Margaret called. "Are you hungry? Your mother had Molly prepare you a plate from supper but I regret to inform you that it is surely cold by now." _Where have you been?_ her heart wanted to add, _I have been waiting for ever so long_.

"That is fine," John responded, not even bothering this time to correct her use of his most formal name. "I have become accustomed to cold fare on nights like this." _But I am not yet used to being snubbed by my own wife_, he continued internally, _Why did you not come?_

Margaret shadowed John into the dining room and seated herself beside him as he ate. John could not think of anything to say and so did not offer anything.

"Your sister visited today," Margaret stated.

"Fanny?" John asked, as if he had any others.

Their conversation was halted by an insistent knocking at the front door.

"Who could that be at this hour?" John questioned, leaving his plate and heading for the door with Margaret just behind.

Margaret and John reached the hall in time to watch Edward swing open the heavy door. The silhouette of a man was highlighted by Edward's ready lamp.

"I've come to see Margaret Hale," the figure stated, his visage hidden by the darkness of the hour but his voice ever so familiar to Margaret.

"Frederick?" Margaret cried.

"Margaret!" He stepped past Edward and into the hall, holding his arms open to her. "I've come to take you home with me."


	8. Chapter 8

~Chapter 8~

"Fred," Margaret said again, as if repeating his name made his presence more real, "How did you get here so quickly? I sent my letter barely three weeks ago. How did you find me at all?" She had thrown her arms about him with complete abandon and released him only after some long minutes had passed. It reminded John of that night at the station, only this reality was a hundred times worse than what he had imagined then. Margaret did not have a lover but might leave him anyway – and to go to Spain! The thought of never seeing her again nearly brought John to his knees.

"Mr. Bell sent me a letter from Oxford upon the event of father's death," Frederick explained, "I set out at once to come for you." He looked about for a place on which to rest his hat and Margaret, seeing it, realized her lack of hospitality.

"Here, Fred," she stated, "Give your hat and coat to Edward. Have you eaten? Are you thirsty?"

Fred did as he was bid, handing his coat and hat over to the butler, whose mustache could not hide a frown so deep it seemed engraved upon his face. _I probably woke him_, Frederick thought and then realized that the late hour meant his sister probably tired as well. "I ate on the train and so am neither hungry nor thirsty. I also did not think on the lateness of the hour or I would have come in the morning. Let me not keep you up. I will return in the morrow."

"Nonsense!" Margaret declared, just as John begged internally, _Go and do not return!_ Margaret steered her brother to the sofa in the sitting room and took her place beside him, glad that she had not extinguished the lights when Mr. Thornton came in from the mill. She did not even appear to notice when John did not follow.

Frederick smiled at his dear sister, noting her appearance and wondering absently at her decision to so quickly abandon her mourning. "Go on," Margaret urged him, "I understand about Mr. Bell's letter, but how did you come to find me here?"

"I had no lucky informant on that point," Frederick admitted. "I traveled first to London and our aunt's home, which is where I thought to find you. Imagine my surprise when I instead learned that you had married and were living still in Milton!" He glanced back at the doorway, but it appeared that the man of the house had seen fit to remove himself from their presence. All the better, for it meant Frederick could be frank with his sister. "Aunt Shaw and Edith told me of the circumstances, Margaret. I only wish I could have traveled faster so as to spare you from this humiliation. But it is no matter. We will soon away to Spain where no one shall know that you ever were married and you can again be Margaret Hale."

John sat on the stairs in the hall with his head in his hands, unable to stop himself from listening in on the conversation that threatened to end his marriage and plunge him into despair. Her brother would take her to Spain with him and Margaret would be happy there. Why, she had appeared more alive in the last ten minutes than she had in the last ten days! How could John even consider selfishly hoping for her to stay? Yet, despite his coaching, John had to stop himself from running forward and spilling out in a deluge all the words and feelings he had held back. If she left, his entire world would cease to hold any meaning. Unable to bear another word, he retreated to the master bedroom where he was certain he would pass a rather sleepless night.

"Fred," Margaret stated. "I am married. Father-" Here she let forth a small sob that alerted Frederick at once to the very real sorrow his sister still felt deeply. He wrapped his arm about her shoulder in a brotherly half hug and squeezed. With that support, Margaret managed to continue. "Father would be ashamed of me for so quickly abandoning the promise I gave before God to stay with Mr. Thornton until death do us part."

"Margaret," Fred complained, "Those same vows say that you will love and honor each other, and that is not so, is it?"

Margaret found that tears separate from those for her father had sprung into her eyes. It was true that Mr. Thornton no longer loved her as he had first professed to do, but surely some type of affection must be responsible for his kind attentions of late. She sniffed and looked down at her lap where she twisted a bit of her skirt in her fingers. This time, the happy fabric failed to elicit a response from her sorely tried emotions.

"Margaret," Fred tried again, softer this time at the sight of her again in tears. "It is very late and the last several weeks have battered your emotions. Let us retire for the evening and continue this conversation in the morning." She gladly complied and, after insisting that her brother would stay nowhere but this household, showed Frederick to the room beside her own.

Frederick breathed in relief as Margaret blushingly explained her sleeping arrangements. He respected this mysterious Mr. Thornton for preserving Margaret's innocence. Tired from his seemingly-eternal journey, Fred quickly dropped off to sleep thinking how in just a few more weeks he would have Margaret safely in Spain and his family united once again. _Now that, Margaret_, he thought_, would make Father proud_.

Margaret, on the other hand, found herself unable to sleep for the turmoil of her thoughts. She was sure that division from either Frederick or Milton – no, that was a falsehood and in her own mind Margaret needed to rely on the truth. It was the division between Frederick and Mr. Thornton – John, her husband – that Margaret thought would tear every fiber of her being. Indeed, she physically ached at the very consideration of either going to Spain or watching Frederick leave. Finally, racked with anxiety and so tense that her clenched teeth hurt, she sought out comfort. First, she knocked softly on Frederick's door, although the snores that emanated from within revealed him to be slumbering. As expected, he did not answer. Thus, Margaret found herself for the second night standing before the master bedroom door uncertainly. Her panic was only worsening; indeed, she could hear herself hyperventilating and the breaths echoing down the hall.

Hannah Thornton woke to a strange sound outside her door. She rose immediately, lifting the glass cover from her bedside lamp and taking the base with her to use as a club if it were an intruder. Instead, she opened her door to view her daughter-in-law down the hall by the stairs appearing to have some sort of attack. Her first thought of Margaret playing John's emotions was tossed immediately aside as John was nowhere in sight. Thus, Hannah gave in to her mothering instinct and, setting the lamp base on the floor, hurried down the hall to Margaret. "Margaret," she called and was met by her daughter-in-law's panic filled eyes. "Sit down," she commanded, and Margaret obeyed, tucking her knees up before her. Hannah knelt before the frightened girl and stroked her hair while murmuring comfortingly, "Hush, hush, it cannot be so bad as all this."

_It is. It is, _Margaret wanted to confide, but could not even catch her breath, much less speak.

Hannah listened worriedly to the hectic pattern of Margaret's breathing. The girl needed to calm herself. Taking Margaret's chin firmly in her hand, Hannah forced her daughter-in-law to meet her eyes again. "Margaret," she urged, "take control over your emotions."

"Mother?" John's voice sounded from the doorway to his bedroom.

"Thank God," Hannah sighed. "It is Margaret. She is unwell, John." Her son was beside her in a moment, his blue eyes absorbing the scene at once. "Do you have any idea what could be the cause?" Hannah asked.

John could barely turn himself from Margaret's condition to answer his mother's question. "Yes," he managed, "I will tell you all in the morning."

Hannah nodded, trusting her son implicitly. She rose but was halted by John's hand at her arm. "Thank you, mother," John stated.

Once his mother headed down the hall, John knelt beside his wife. "Margaret," he whispered, drawing her name out in a croon. Her chest still heaved as she hyperventilated audibly. She seemed when he had first arrived at the scene unfocused, but now she watched him with anxious eyes and reached out a hesitant hand in his direction. It was all the invitation John required. He lifted Margaret and carried her into the bedroom, cradling her again as he had the night before, although this time far too worried over her panic to enjoy the sensation, despite the fact that for the second time Margaret clung to him, wanting the contact. "This is about your brother's arrival," John remarked, knowing it to be a fact. "Margaret, you do not have to make a decision about your actions this night." She breathed a little easier at these words, so John repeated them like a lullaby. Slowly, Margaret's panic subsided and she eventually lay calm in John's arms. John waited for the moment when she would withdraw, pulling back from this intimate connection, but it never came. Instead, Margaret relaxed into sleep still in her husband's embrace.

For the good part of an hour, John sat still, soaking in this moment, perhaps one of their last together. He absorbed the smooth softness of her cheek where it touched the open collar of his nightshirt. He breathed in the scent of her, all soap and sunshine. After a while, however, his own exhaustion began to tax him and his arms grew stiff and heavy. Unwilling to either risk waking Margaret or give up these few last moments with her by returning her to the bedroom that her belongings occupied – he refused to call it her bedroom –, John determined instead to lay her beside him on the bed; but, when he placed her down, Margaret still clung to John, her fists holding tight to the cloth of his nightshirt. Rather than free her hands, John lay beside her, closer than he had planned, with Margaret curled against his chest. Uncertain of everything except that moment, John held fast to consciousness until Margaret's soft sighs and radiant warmth lulled him to sleep.

John woke to find that they had shifted in the night. Margaret now lay on the edge of the bed as though trying to remain as far from him as possible. He could not help but wonder if she had arranged herself that way after waking in the night. Depressed at the thought, John decided not to remain in the bedroom until Margaret awoke as he had first planned. Instead, he rose, dressed, and grabbed a quick bite in the dining room.

"Shall I ask Molly to make up a basket for two?" Edward asked, trying to subtly pry into the standings between the master and mistress after the events of the night before.

"No, Edward," John replied, his voice carefully stripped of any emotion. "I will take my dinner with me as before."

"Ay, sir." Edward left to inform Molly of both the master's request and its relation to the master and mistress' current situation. He returned with the resulting basket and Mr. Thornton was on his way.

Margaret woke slowly, uncertain at first of her location after the turmoil of last night. She found herself, as had become her custom of late, alone in the dark of the master bedroom. Swallowing at the lump of self-pity that rose in her throat, Margaret slipped silently down the hall and into her own bedroom. There, she selected a dull grey dress with white collar and cuffs and prepared her hair herself very simply. Thus dressed before most of the household stirred, Margaret hurried downstairs and into the dining room. She scanned the room without acknowledging for what she searched, but upon finding no basket left by Mr. Thornton, Margaret gave a small sigh of disappointment.

"May I help you with something?" Edward asked, frightening her a little, for she had not noticed him.

"No, thank you," she replied and wandered down the hall and into the library, but could concentrate on no volume that entered her fingers.

"Good morning, Margaret," Frederick yawned, leaning in the doorway. "I do hope, this, your last in Milton, is a good one." Margaret felt the panic from the night before enveloping her.

"I could not possibly be ready until the end of the week!" Margaret insisted.

Fred sighed and crossed the room to her. "It is Tuesday. Whatever could keep you from readiness to leave until week's end?"

Margaret went to play with her cuff but halted herself, unwilling to reveal the strength of her emotion on this subject. "I must call on our family's acquaintances and pack my belongings."

Hannah Thornton stood in the hall, absorbing the whole of the conversation within. Hers was a true accidental eavesdropping, as she had merely come to check on Margaret after her attack of panic the night before. Instead, she found her daughter-in-law speaking of leaving with a man that Hannah had not known was present in the house at all. Was this the mysterious man from the train station? All the pieces fitted themselves together in Hannah's mind. She longed to enter and give that wicked girl the tongue lashing that she deserved for daring to marry John Thornton and then leave him in scandal with a heart not only broken but ground in the dirt. Did John know of this yet? Hannah experienced the division of a mother's heart at such a moment: to hide the truth and spare him the pain for the moment or to reveal all now and take from him these last moments free of pain? There was no easy answer, but Hannah decided after a minute that knowing now would not change Margaret's heart and thus John did not need to know. She stormed into the front room and attacked her needlework.

"But you are no longer fighting the thought of leaving?" Frederick pushed, thinking of the meeting between his dear wife and his sister and how Margaret would love the climate of the southern coast.

"I do not know, Fred," Margaret burst out. "I simply must speak with Mr. Thornton about this."

"Very well," Frederick replied, frustrated, "then do so at once that we might move forward with your preparations."

Margaret returned to the dining room, wiping her hands on her skirt before entering, as they had become moist with her rising anxiousness. "Edward," she addressed the butler.

"Yes, mistress?"

"Did Mr. Thornton take his dinner with him to the mill?" Margaret asked.

"Aye, mistress," Edward returned, his eyebrows lifting in surprise at this unusual turn of events.

"Ask Molly to make me another," Margaret commanded, "I will be joining him."

"Yes, mistress." Edward's mouth stretched into a grin once he entered the hall.

When he returned with her basket, Margaret gathered her gloves, bonnet, and courage, and headed out the door and down the steps into the mill yard.

John had expected the morning to drag but instead found himself caught up in an unusual situation. Williams informed John as soon as the workers arrived that more had come down with the fever that had started at the mill with only two. An inspection of the present workers revealed some who should have stayed home sick. John's stomach twisted. If this were an epidemic, it could not only damage him financially but threaten the entire community. _Perhaps it is for the best that Margaret is leaving_, the little voice in John's mind offered sarcastically. Tossing the thought aside, John began to dismiss those workers who appeared ill, unwilling for it to spread on his account. He had made it down two aisles when a child collapsed down the line; it was Johnny Boucher, the oldest of the Boucher children who had only this week begun work gathering the cotton fluff beneath the looms. Nicholas moved to run to the child.

"No!" John cried, unable to allow the father to go to his adopted son, as his two looms would be unattended. "I have him!"

His face twisting in grief, Nicholas nevertheless returned to his place. John carefully lifted the child, feeling at once the heat of fever. He walked to Higgins, who cupped the boy's face in a tender hand. "Take him to Mary," Higgins stated, more calmly than John expected. So John exited the mill and walked towards the dining hall.

"Johnny!" John turned to see Margaret racing down the steps of the house and cursed.

"Get back in the house!" he cried, terrified that she might catch the fever.

Margaret did not even hesitate at his words. He could not mean them. She had to see the poor boy. "Is he hurt? Is he ill?" she asked, still running towards them.

"Get back in the house, Margaret!" John's tone brooked no argument and finally brought a halt to her advance. Unsure how long her obedience would last, he hurried into the dining hall, shutting the door against her with a decisive bang.

Margaret stood for a minute, waiting for him to return, to explain his harsh words and actions. She wanted to go after him or to go to the mill and find Nicholas, but John Thornton had laid down his command. When he did not come, anger coursed her veins so that she felt hot despite the slight chill of the morning. Finally, Margaret returned to the house, throwing down her little basket by the door. Perhaps Spain was not far enough!


	9. Chapter 9

~Chapter 9~

Left by himself with Margaret gone off to speak to Mr. Thornton, Frederick wandered into the front room where Mrs. Thornton sat embroidering. "Good morning, madam," Fred began, "I do not believe we have had the pleasure of meeting. I am Frederick Hale."

Hannah broke off from glaring at the intruder as his name registered. "Hale?"

"I am Margaret's brother."

Hannah sputtered, "I- how-why did I not know that the Hales had a son?"

Frederick shrugged, suddenly fearing that Margaret had not shared the story of his existence for good reason and that either the woman before him or one of the household servants might carry his tale to the authorities. He would not risk his life to fulfill idle curiosity. "I am the black sheep of the family, I am afraid," he finally offered.

Hannah did not press for more details, absorbed with the question of what this new revelation meant for her son. They were interrupted from further conversation when Margaret flew into the house, her face pink with fury and her hair a mess of newly escaped tendrils.

"Margaret?" Frederick asked, rising from his seat and taking a step towards her. She shook her head, unable to vocalize the anger that threatened to spill forth, and headed to the library to calm down.

In the dining hall, Mary Higgins rushed forward as soon as she realized what, or rather whom, Mr. Thornton carried. "What happened?" she cried, much too upset in the moment to properly address the master.

"Fever," John replied brusquely. "It is spreading through the mill. Try to keep him away from the other children."

Mary laughed bitterly at that, thinking how with only two rooms and two beds in the house there would be little chance of any separation at all. She reached out and accepted the little boy from Mr. Thornton. "Father should not 've let you start at the mill," she said to the still unconscious child. "He told you you dinna have to." Shifting him onto her hip, Mary moved towards the door and John opened it before her.

"Will you allow me to call you a carriage?" he asked, thinking of the long walk ahead of her.

She smiled at that, somewhat ruefully. "Did you call one for the others you sent off for today?" Then, at his surprised expression, continued, "Aye, I've already news of that."

"No," he replied.

"Then, no, master," she answered, starting off towards the gate.

"Would you have let my wife call a carriage?" John queried, thinking of Margaret's reaction to the girl carrying the child that distance.

"Perhaps," Mary returned, "But she is no' here is she?" John let her go then, watching until she exited the gate and then heading for the house, sure he owed his wife an explanation.

"Margaret?" he asked his mother and Frederick. Both shook their heads, not knowing, Hannah wondering at his lack of reaction to the presence of Margaret's brother. She remembered that he had promised to inform her of the reason for Margaret's attack. Perhaps he already knew that she was leaving. Her heart twisted with sorrow for her son.

John hurried down the hall and stopped in the library doorway, thinking to find her there. He was right. "Margaret," he breathed; she turned and he could read the tempest in her eyes. "Margaret," he started again, apologetically. She stepped forward and slammed the door in his sorry face. He stood frozen by her unexpected reaction, then returned to the mill, his own face adopting her expression.

Margaret sighed in relief when she opened the door half an hour later to find an empty hall. She still harbored too much anger to accept an apology, yet she longed to know what had happened to Johnny Boucher and so paced by the window in the front sitting room, thoroughly distracting Fred and Hannah from their attempts at polite conversation. Finally, the mill whistle sounded the end of the day and Margaret excused herself and slipped from the house.

"Nicholas!" she called, spotting him among the flood of workers pouring towards the gate. He wrestled his way through to her.

"Miss Margaret," he returned, taking his hat in his hands before her.

"Johnny?" she asked.

"He has a bit o' fever that is workin' its way through the mill," Nicholas replied, his eyes drifting towards the gate and the road that would take him to his family.

"Could I bring a basket by tomorrow?"

"Aye," he responded, "If Thornton thinks it right."

Margaret sucked in her cheeks to keep her anger in check. "I will bring a basket tomorrow," she declared.

Nicholas nodded, too distracted to interpret her reaction. "G'night, Miss Margaret."

"Good night, Nicholas." Margaret found when she turned that she faced John Thornton, who watched her from a few yards away, his blue eyes piercing. Averting her gaze, Margaret returned to the house.

Supper that night was a brutal affair, full of awkward silences and unspoken tension. Margaret asked her brother for anything she wished to have passed whether it sat within his reach or not. John did not speak at all, but gripped his utensils so tightly that the scab on one knuckle reopened itself. Hannah, who found her tooth aching slightly from bearing the burden of conversing with Mr. Hale, joined her son in his silence. Thus, only Frederick spoke, chattering on about the architecture, food, and culture in Cadiz. Had he realized how the subject depressed his listeners, he might also have been mute.

After supper, Fred pulled Margaret to the side. "I must speak with you," he started. "I love you, Margaret. You are my only sister. If you truly need a week to prepare yourself, I am willing to risk my safety in order to give you that time. However, every moment I am listening for the sound of horses, the sound of marching, the sound of my demise." Here he gripped her hand in urgent fingers. "Please, Margaret. Is there not any way you could be ready by tomorrow evening?" Margaret saw at once his distress and thought of the young bride, Dolores, he left in Cadiz to travel through such danger for her. She felt at once the weight that her selfishness had brought down upon his shoulders.

"Of course, Fred!" she promised.

Internally, John battled between two opposing sides, wishing to simultaneously ask pardon of Margaret for his offenses and to remain at odds with her so as to cushion the blow of her leaving. A hundred times that night he bit his tongue to halt the words of apology. Even after Margaret retired to her bedroom, John stood outside the door for a few long minutes with his hand poised as if to knock. Heavy hearted, he retreated to his bedroom, kicking off his shoes and jerking his cravat off to free his neck. He sank down not on his bed but the armchair by the fireplace, resting his head in his hands in despair. She would be gone before the week was out, John was sure of it now. Instead of begging Margaret to stay, John had managed to drive her away more completely. He ached at the divide between them, which could only grow now that they would be permanently separated; yet, there was no purpose in healing the rift when Margaret did not care for him enough to stay. He breathed raggedly. Since it would make no difference, John resolved not to lower himself in begging her forgiveness. Thus, when the crack around his door began to lighten, John rose from his sleepless night of self-torture and traveled again to the mill.

Margaret slept poorly, her wakefulness fueled by churning emotions. She rose early enough to watch from her window as Mr. Thornton walked to the mill but dropped the curtain back into place when he glanced back at the house. She wore her favorite blue dress in honor of her last day in Milton. After breaking her fast, Margaret asked Edward to make up a basket for a large family and set out before the rest of the household woke, anxious to bid farewell to the makeshift family that she had come to love. The walk from Marlboro Mills to the Higgins household refreshed Margaret. The sun managed to peek from between the soot-darkened clouds, warming the breeze that tugged at Margaret's straw bonnet and blue skirts, seeking to slow her stride. Even the dirty, crowded housing in which Higgins, Mary, and the Boucher children lived appeared more pleasant with the green and gold of new spring weeds sprouting up along the dusty roadside. Margaret was almost sorry to knock at the Higgins' door and be ushered inside by Mary, but smiled at the sight of little Johnny sitting in bed spooning broth into his mouth eagerly.

"How is he?" she asked Mary, who had hurried back to tend the laundry that bubbled in the kettle over the fire.

"Too soon to tell," Mary replied, "Though father is not much worried about him. He thinks the most great danger is to the littlest ones." Margaret glanced at the five children who all played on or about the bed on which their ill brother sat. Why, Anna even then squeezed herself a little closer to the older brother after whom she modeled herself.

"Should you not keep them apart?" Margaret asked.

"And how, pray tell, would I be doing a thing like that?" Mary returned in exasperation. "I've little enough time as it is to keep up with chores and I've not the mind to leave Johnny alone to take them out or to let them out on their own, young as they are. Anna could hardly manage Patty and Keenan, much less Seamus and Cora."

Margaret pressed her hand into Mary's shoulder, recognizing the fear and exhaustion in her words. "I am sorry, Mary. You are right of course."

"I'm surprised the master let you come," Mary continued, "worried like he was about the fever spreading." Margaret flushed at the statement but did not allow herself to feel guilt for her actions. After all, if he had only taken the time to explain himself, she would have known his wishes on the subject. As she was thinking this, Margaret felt a tug on her skirt and looked down to find Cora, the youngest Boucher at 4 years of age, staring solemnly at her.

"Good morning, Cora," she said, sinking down to the little girl's level. Cora kept her hold on the silky fabric of the skirt, brushing it against her cheek.

"Where is that man?" Cora asked, direct as an arrow despite the distraction of the fabric.

"What man?"

"Who comed with you last," Cora elaborated patiently.

"Mr. Thornton?" Cora nodded. "He is working at the mill where Nicholas is. Why?"

Cora's plump little cheeks pinked as she grinned. "Johnny says he liiiiiiiiiiikes you." She scampered a ways away, pleased with the mischief she spread.

Margaret's eyes snapped up to the bed where Johnny sat shooting his sister a glare. He met her eyes and shrugged. "Nic'las says I must say what's true," he declared, puffing his chest up in preparation of needing a defense.

Margaret nodded. "You may say what you like, Johnny, but I am afraid this time you are mistaken." He opened his mouth to protest, so Margaret hurriedly went on. "Now this is my last day in Milton, so I am going to need lots of hugs."

"Why?" Anna demanded, forgetting her desire to become joined at the hip with her brother and crawling over the bed to reach Margaret. Patty, Keenan, and Seamus paid the conversation little mind, but Anna, Johnny, and Cora stared at Margaret incredulously.

Margaret smiled, working hard to keep the tears from her eyes and voice. "My brother has come from Spain to take me home with him so that we can be a family together. Family should stay together, do you not agree?"

Anna crossed her little arms. "You can be a family together here."

"No, Anna," Margaret corrected her, gently. "I must go with him, for he has a wife and a life in Spain."

"Wife. Life," Cora sang out, pleased at the rhyme.

Anna remained unsatisfied. "We could be your family," she offered.

Margaret could not keep the tears then from crowding into her eyes. She gathered the little girl into her arms and whispered, "I wish I could stay with you, Anna. I do." She continued in a louder voice, "Now who wants a story?" All the children gathered around her then and Margaret began to recite every nursery rhyme and fairy tale that she had ever heard or read. Only when Mary announced dinner did Margaret manage to tear herself away and head back to the house. Once it came into view, Margaret could not help but consider with mixed emotions the many memories of that house and its inhabitants that she would carry with her by carriage, train, and boat to far away Cadiz. These thoughts followed her through a silent dinner and up the stairs where she began to pack, folding each dress she had worn and shedding more than one tear at the thought of never wearing them again in Milton.

Edward trudged up the stairs, unable to fathom how the Thornton's marriage had gone from such hope to this disastrous end which he was entrusted with bringing to fruition. He knocked at Mrs. Margaret Thornton's bedroom door.

"Yes?" she called from within.

"It is Edward, madam. The carriage stands ready and I am charged with carrying down your trunk if you are prepared."

The door opened, revealing the pale, solemn face of Margaret Thornton, nee Hale. "I am ready," she stated, leaving him with the trunk and walking woodenly down the now familiar path from the bedroom to the stairs and down into the front hall. Gathering her bonnet, coat, and gloves, Margaret headed out the door for the last time. She waited in the yard as Edward brought down and loaded her trunk, not watching the proceedings but focused on the mill, from which Mr. Thornton had not emerged.

John stood in his office, very aware of the scene unfolding in the mill yard below him. His carefully schooled his face into an emotionless expression, but felt every preparation like a blow to his gut. She would leave, wearing the same dress in which she had married him. She would climb into the carriage and drive off to the train station and from there head to London and then the coast where she would meet a boat to take her forever from this country and her husband. And John stood in his office, unable to bear a moment more in her presence if she were not going to stay.

"We are ready," Frederick declared, startling Margaret from her thoughts. She took her brother's hand as he helped her up into the carriage. This was it, then. There would be no goodbye from Mr. Thornton. From John.

"Wait!" Margaret cried, leaping down from the carriage and running across the yard into the mill. She raced up the steps and entered Mr. Thornton's office breathless.

"Have you come to say goodbye, then?" John asked, keeping his back to her, his voice rough with emotion despite his best efforts.

"Ask me to stay!" she begged, breathless from running and from the separate pounding of her heart at her own brazenness. She felt elation. Freedom. But also terrible fear. "I would wish to stay in Milton-" She corrected herself, "I would wish to stay with you but I cannot if you do not want it so."

John spun around at that, shock wiping his face clear of any emotion. He could not speak.

Believing his silence to be her answer, Margaret turned for the door, desperate sobs breaking free. _He does not want me_, her heart cried.

John stopped his wife with a hand on her arm. He pulled her back to face him, lifting her chin so that her chocolate eyes met his. "Margaret," he breathed, stepping still closer and wiping at her tears with a hand. "Stay." He leaned down and brushed his lips over hers. "Please stay," he whispered.


	10. Chapter 10

~Chapter 10~

Margaret wrapped her arms around John's neck, lifting herself on her toes to press her lips against his in return. A gasp escaped her as John snaked his arm around her waist and pressed her closer to him. "Stay," he demanded, dropping kisses on her eyes, her cheeks, her chin, her neck. Margaret felt feverish at his touch.

"Yes," she promised.

Realizing the public nature of the office, John regretfully pulled back. "Let us go down and inform your brother," John stated, watching a bit of sorrow flicker over Margaret's face, revealing the true divide she still felt. He thanked God that he had come out on the winning end of that division. They walked together down the stairs, John refusing despite the impropriety to release Margaret's hand, and across the mill yard to where Frederick waited impatiently.

"I cannot go, Fred," Margaret admitted.

He smiled wryly. "I thought as much."

"Try not to be angry with me for taking you from Dolores for nothing," Margaret requested.

Fred kissed her forehead. "Do not be silly. I am now sure that you are happy and I have seen you. After all, who knows if or when I shall ever be in England again?" Margaret sniffed at his words and John tucked her closer beside him.

As they talked, Edward freed Margaret's trunk from the roof of the carriage and hefted it back inside. He could hardly wait to share this development with Molly, Agnes, Samantha, and Julia!

When Edward had finished, Fred climbed into the waiting carriage, waved once, and was off. Margaret watched long after she could not see him anymore. Finally, John gently pulled her away.

"Come," he offered, "Let us work together at the accounts for this last hour before supper." Margaret obediently followed John back to the mill and up into his office. She sat at the desk and copied the numbers John figured into the large book open before her, but her heart was not in the task. Instead, her thoughts circled around the brother that she might never again see. John noted her silence and carefully monitored her expression, ready to stop the exercise if it proved too trying. Thus, his eyes were upon her when a tear rolled its way down her nose and dripped onto the page she prepared. "Margaret," he soothed. She could not bear to meet his eyes, sure that she would crumble. John removed the pen from her grasp and took both of her hands in his own. "I had hoped to distract you," he explained, "but it appears that I was wrong to do so. Let us go back to the house." Margaret nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

"I was just about to send Edward for you," Hannah stated when Margaret and John entered the house. "Supper is ready." She had stood in the window watching Margaret depart and so saw the entire episode unfold. Immensely pleased for her son, she immediately ordered Molly to prepare John's favorite supper of roasted beef. Now, however, she frowned to see Margaret step behind John as though to shield herself from a blow.

"Mother," John replied, "I believe Margaret and I will take a plate in the library this evening. I do apologize for the inconvenience." His blue eyes begged for understanding and acceptance, and Hannah could rarely refuse him anything, so she nodded her assent. Grateful, Margaret shadowed her husband into the library.

Edward brought in two plates laden with food, two glasses of wine, and utensils. "Will there be anything else?" he asked, the gossip in him longing to stay while simultaneously thinking how much more interesting the evening might be without him present to witness it.

"No," John replied. "Thank you, Edward." When the butler left the room, John closed the library door behind him, seated himself in his brown chair, and pulled Margaret onto his lap. "I am so sorry for your loss," he offered and Margaret, overwhelmed by all of her recent losses, gave in and cried heartily against her husband's shoulder. John rubbed a hand up and down his wife's back and murmured to her comfortingly.

When she once again had hold over her emotions, Margaret sat up with a hiccoughing sigh. "I believe I have cried more than I have smiled since coming into this house," she admitted, defeated by the thought.

John smoothed away an errant tear that hung on Margaret's face and shimmered in the lamp light. "That is something I greatly desire to change," he declared.

Margaret's mouth lifted at the corners at her husband's words. "And how, pray tell, do you propose to accomplish that?" she asked.

"Well," John returned, wearing a thoughtful expression that he hoped hid his nervousness in answering, "you smiled earlier today when I kissed you. I might try and see if it happens again." He looked for her reaction but instead of a smile he was stunned to watch as she lifted her face to him and closed her eyes, waiting. For the second time in this earth-shattering day, John brought his lips down to touch those of his wife.

"Margaret, Margaret," he whispered, "You are so beautiful." He traced his hands from her face down her neck and across her shoulders. Margaret thought she would be consumed by the heat that followed his fingers across her skin. Her breath quickened. When her husband did not return his attentions fast enough to her lips, Margaret ran her own hand through his hair and pulled his head down again. With that, John grew bolder and gently caught her plump lower lip in his teeth. She gave a low moan that excited him.

A knock at the library door. "Shall I come back later to collect your plates, master?" Edward asked. John growled in frustration at the interruption. "Yes," he barked. Margaret laughed and broke free of his arms, moving across the room to collect the untouched food.

"We should eat now," she stated, laughing again at the sullen expression that her words brought to his face. So they did, seated across the room from one another. John found the distance, their norm until that day, unbearable. He hurried through his meal, paced impatiently until Margaret finished hers, and then found himself hesitating over their next action. Edward would certainly return and John did not wish to embarrass Margaret with open affection before the staff, yet he feared to question the arrangements for their private space.

Setting her plate aside, Margaret stood in the path of John's pacing and so halted his movements. "Shall we –" She turned her wedding band around her finger nervously. "Are you ready to retire?" she finally managed.

"Yes," he agreed. They climbed the steps together and came to a halt before John's bedroom door. "How would you like to handle this?" he asked. His heart in his throat, he hoped as he had not dared before that she might join him in the master bedroom. In the master bed.

"I will have my things brought in tomorrow morning," she stated, blushing furiously. "Let me only retrieve a nightgown and my brush." Margaret hurried down the hall and into the lavender and mint bedroom. It stood empty. Puzzled, she returned to the master bedroom only to find John coming out in search of her.

"It appears Edward took the liberty of assuming your accommodations had changed," he offered, pointing out her trunk at the foot of the bed and her belongings across the vanity. Margaret laughed, although it was slightly forced. She tried to push aside the fears that assaulted her.

"Margaret," John crooned, reading her emotions, "There is no need to rush into this. I will not be angry if you wish to keep to a separate bedroom for a time."

She shook her head. "I wish to be with you; it is just – I am afraid."

"I will never hurry you or hurt you," he assured her. "I will leave if you would rather change alone."

Margaret smiled, thinking how similar and yet wonderfully different this night was compared to their wedding night. Yes, she felt fear at the thought of the unknown, but John loved her and she loved him. Together they would muddle through this and the accompanying nights.

"Would you rather I left while you changed?" John asked, uncertain what her silence meant.

"No," she responded, strengthened by her thoughts. "Would you unfasten my buttons?" For the second time in their short marriage, John strode closer. One, two, three. No large distance. He reached out with eager hands and unfastened the pearl buttons that closed the back of her wedding dress. This time, he did not stop his fingers from caressing the milky white skin that his labor revealed. Margaret shivered and John immediately withdrew his hands.

"Finished," he breathed and turned away.

Margaret slipped out of her undergarments and into a nightdress. She touched John's arm to signal that she had finished, then seated herself at the vanity and began brushing out her hair as John changed. She felt a strange twist of her stomach when his bare arm came into view in the mirror, lifting the nightshirt above his head.

Dressed, John sat on the edge of the bed transfixed by the beautiful woman before him whose dark tresses spilled down over her white gown. Margaret caught his eyes in the mirror and smiled again, her happiness filling his heart to overflowing.

"Come to bed, Margaret," he urged and Margaret rose and walked to the bed to join her husband. One, two, three, four, five. She climbed in between the covers and raised her lips as John lowered his for a good night kiss. They lay side by side. John caught her hand in his own above the covers. "Are you tired?" he asked.

Margaret's eyelids fought to close but her mind still raced with the events of the day. "No," she replied and yawned, causing both of them to laugh and turn towards one another. She watched as his Roman features relaxed in joy. Even after their laughter quieted, Margaret could see despite the dim room that the lines at the corners of his eyes and lips remained, softening his appearance. She reached out tentatively and traced her hand down the slightly whisker-roughened contour of his cheek.

"Why did you stay?" John asked, bolstered by her action.

"I could not go," Margaret replied. John remained silent, hoping for more of an explanation. "My heart felt as though it would be torn in two whether I would go or stay," Margaret continued as John raised his hand to trap hers against his face. "I thought that since you did not want me here-"

"I have always wanted you!" John interrupted.

Margaret smiled. "You forget our disagreements."

"Misunderstandings," he qualified. "But go on."

"I thought I should go," Margaret continued, "But when I stepped up into the carriage I could not breathe with the pain of leaving and had to know if you would let me stay."

"Let you stay?" John burst, "I cannot believe I almost let you go. Margaret, you might as well have torn my still-beating heart from my chest for the agony I underwent as you prepared to go with your brother."

Margaret freed her hand and pressed it against his chest. "And for that I am sorry."

"Your presence now heals any wound that your impending departure created," John assured her. He lifted the warm little hand from its place over his heart and kissed each finger tenderly.

"And you?" Margaret demanded, "Why did you not come for me yourself if indeed you experienced such pain at the thought of me leaving for the continent?"

"Ah, here's the rub," John returned, "Had I any indication of your feelings towards me, I would have in an instant. Your anger towards me seemed quite complete and I despaired of you even wishing to remain in England never mind wishing to stay with me." He paused and Margaret had just opened her mouth to respond when he continued almost in a whisper, "I have belonged to you for such a long time, my Margaret."

Unable to find words, Margaret pressed her lips against his cheek. They lay together silently until both drifted off to sleep.

John woke in the night to find that Margaret in her sleep had snuggled against his warmth. He breathed in the sweet smell of her and brushed a hand over her hair. She sighed but did not stir, so John kissed her forehead and pulled his wife still closer, wrapping her in his arms. Her warmth lulled him back into a contented sleep.


	11. Chapter 11

~Chapter 11~

John rose in the still darkness of the pre-dawn hours. He dressed slower than usual, coming often to stand beside the sleeping form of his wife. She lay curled in the center of the bed where John had left her, one arm beneath her head in such a way as to turn her face towards him. Margaret. He bit his tongue to keep from calling her name aloud. If he did, she might stir and wake, blinking open the large, expression-filled eyes that he always wanted to find filled with the ready affection of the night before. John had never seen his wife as she woke. His imagination colored the many possibilities. Would she wake eagerly, rising to greet the new day, a smile upon her lips? Perhaps, like Fanny, she did not rise easily and would fight to remain abed, burying herself amid the coverlets. Either reality excited John, ready as he was to absorb every detail of his Margaret. Knowing he would not disturb her sleep on a whim, John headed for the door. Crack! His shoulder caught the edge of the bed frame.

Margaret sat immediately upright at the unexpected sound. Although never a light sleeper, Margaret would have had to be deaf or dead to remain at rest with that noise. "John?" she cried, her heart pounding in surprise.

"Good morning, Margaret," John answered her, his voice tight with the sharp pain in his shoulder, "I am sorry to have woken you."

"Are you all right?" she asked, only able to see his shadowy form in the lightless room.

John grinned. "I fear I have sprained my pride, but I am sure it will make a full recovery."

Margaret stepped down off the bed, her bare toes curling appreciatively when they met warm carpet. She worked her way carefully to him, surprised when her bare foot came in contact with his shoe. "You are leaving," she exclaimed.

"To go to the mill," he responded.

She let out a little sigh. "How can you even tell that it is morning? The darkness in this room is so complete."

A chuckle escaped John. "I have risen at this time for so long that I do not require the sun to calculate the hour." A moment later the disappointment in her voice registered and he went on. "Does the darkness bother you?"

Margaret shifted from one foot to the other. "Yes," she finally answered, honestly. "I find it much easier to start my day waking with the light. The few nights I have spent in this room have all ended with me rising hurriedly for fear of having slept beyond an acceptable hour."

"Why did you not tell me?" John questioned, surprised at the revelation.

She smiled at that. "It hardly seemed prudent."

John, unable to stand even the short distance between them, removed it in a single step. He brushed his hand down the sleeve of her cotton nightdress. "You must change the room to please you," he commanded.

"I would not wish to impose."

"It would be an imposition if you woke every day unhappy as a result of the décor of this bedroom," he insisted.

"Then I shall change it," Margaret decided with a yawn. Unused to the early hour, she let her head drop sleepily until it rested against his chest.

John wrapped his arms around her, knowing that he would be late to the mill even if he forewent breakfast. "Go back to bed, Margaret," he stated, planting a kiss on her forehead. Her face was warm against his lips and John's heart leapt into his throat. Could it be fever? He pressed a palm against her forehead and cheek, breathing easier as he registered each as possessing only the normal warmth of sleep.

"Shall I bring your dinner basket?" Margaret queried, thinking how it would improve her day.

"No, dearest," John responded, fear fresh in his mind. Margaret pulled away from him then, so he continued, "I will not have you further exposed to the illness that is currently sweeping through the mill."

"I am taking a basket to the Higgins' today," Margaret declared. "How much more dangerous can the mill be?"

John's face blanched at that. "You will not. Send Julia or Samantha."

Margaret stomped her bare foot rather ineffectually on the carpeted floor. "You may be my husband, John Thornton, but I do not take orders. I will visit poor Mary myself to see if I can be of any help to her or the children." Even in the dark room, John saw her cheeks flush and her mahogany eyes flash with anger.

"Will you not see reason?"

"I see no reason to react with such force to a fever!" Margaret argued, her voice rising in frustration. "Why, Johnny Boucher seemed well enough the other day to have gone out and played in the street with all the other children."

"You judge from the illness of one child," John returned. "I, on the other hand, have not had any of my laborers return to work although dozens are now ill. I do not have any measure yet of the severity of this, only its quick rate of spreading." He turned up his palms in a peace-making gesture. "I cannot bear the thought of you ill because I was not careful enough, Margaret."

"And I will become ill if you confine me to this house," Margaret insisted, placing her hands atop his own.

John forced a smile. "I do not think I could ever command anything of you against your will, Margaret. I admit defeat for the moment, although I beg you to consider carefully the risks to your own health which you are taking." He brushed a hand over her tousled hair and pulled her closer. "Now I must be going."

Surprised by the easy end of the argument, Margaret barely managed to offer a "goodbye" before her husband had quit the room. When Samantha came in to check on the mistress, Margaret had selected and laid out a practical but colorful turquoise gown. Once dressed, Margaret almost danced down the stairs and into the dining room.

"Good morning, madam," Edward greeted her, thinking that the smile on the mistress' face more than made up for the cloudy, humid day.

"Edward, good morning," Margaret replied. "I will be visiting the Higgins family today and require a basket to be prepared for them."

"Do you plan to risk the health of this entire household merely in order to satisfy your own fancy?" Hannah Thornton snapped, entering the room behind her daughter-in-law and catching the end of her conversation. "It is bad enough that you enter those repulsive slums, where filth covers everything and everyone. Doing so during an epidemic is the height of ignorance or selfishness. I have not decided yet which applies to you. Perhaps both." She stood majestically over the now-seated Margaret, one lip curled in disgust.

Margaret attempted to answer civilly, unwilling to devote time and energy to this woman who so often found fault with her. "I have spoken with my husband about this matter and therefore do not require your approval." She rose and left the room, gathered a light straw bonnet, a white shawl and matching gloves, and retrieved the completed basket from Edward. The butler patted his mistress' gloved hand companionably, bringing a smile back to Margaret's face.

Stepping out onto the porch, Margaret breathed deeply as though to rid herself of the contagion of fury that Mrs. Thornton exuded. Heavy clouds blanketed the sky, trapping a layer of sticky, moist air over the town, making each breath uncomfortable. After a few moments, Margaret continued down the steps and towards the gate, her heart growing lighter as her thoughts transferred from Mrs. Thornton to the Higgins and Boucher family whom she would soon see. All around her, the summer world emerged. The weeds, which had seemed new only yesterday, had thickened into hardy growth that pushed apart the cobblestones or clung defiantly to the houses that Margaret passed. Yet, few of the residents of these homes seemed to recognize or revel in the changing of the season. Instead, those individuals who walked the streets hurried by without their customary greetings to her. Reaching the Higgins' door, Margaret knocked firmly.

It took several moments for Mary to reach the door, opening it only a crack to view the caller. "Miss Margaret," she declared, "It is good of you to come, but I fear we are more a sick house than at your last visit. Perhaps you should not stay."

"Nonsense," Margaret replied. "I have come with food and a ready hand for work."

Mary opened the door to allow Margaret entry, revealing that the house had been transformed with makeshift pallets upon which nearly all of the children lay. Johnny, who had been so active despite his illness on Margaret's last visit now lay sleeping, his face blotched with the color of fever. Anna, his constant companion, lay beside him, wearing the same patchwork of color with an added sheen of sweat upon her brow. The others lay in similar states with only Cora awake and clinging to Mary, who held the sick child to her shoulder as she attempted to care for the others.

"Here." Margaret held out her arms and Cora launched herself into them. There, Cora locked her arms about Margaret's neck and her legs about Margaret's waist. Finally, Cora hid her face in the curve below Margaret's cheek so that her hot skin burnt against Margaret's own. Dropping a kiss on the little girl's forehead, Margaret dampened a rag in the wash basin and ran it over each fever-rouged face.

"How are they?" Margaret asked, lowering her voice to avoid disturbing any rest that the poor souls might be taking.

Mary looked up from dribbling some evil smelling, home-made concoction into Keenan's mouth. "Father is fearsome worried," she admitted, not bothering to whisper. "Now that old man Richards been found dead and Garry Boxer nearly there, he is afeared it might take more than one o' ours."

A lump rose in Margaret's throat at the thought of any of these dear ones with the color all gone from their faces and tiny coffins replacing the bedspreads beneath them. "I am sure it will not be as bad as that," she managed, her statement a prayer.

Mary nodded, too worn to argue the point with the inexperienced woman from the South.

From that point on the two women remained silent, carrying out the routine tasks that needed no soundtrack. Margaret continued to bathe the children's faces, soothing them when they stirred restlessly. Mary cooked up a broth and patiently spooned it into each child's mouth, wiping away the liquid that spilled when the child did not swallow or lifting them into a sitting position if they choked on it. Margaret realized too late as she watched that the basket filled with breads and meats would be of little use.

"Nay," Mary declared, when Margaret voiced her regret, "The meat will make broth and the bread will feed me and Father. And speakin' o' the man, he will be home right soon. You had best be off afore it gets dark." Margaret assented, pressed a hand to each child's forehead, freed Cora's hands from around her neck and passed the now sleeping child to Mary.

"God bless and keep all of you," Margaret stated as she left.

"Amen," was Mary's reply.

Margaret hurried back to the house in the fading daylight, finding the world a changed place from the summer season she had greeted earlier. Instead, Margaret noticed the number of houses uncommonly dark for the early hour and wondered if the occupants were too ill to light a candle. Her fears multiplied as she considered the very real possibility that dozens of households had fallen ill down to the last member.

Entering the Thornton house, Margaret found the normal activities within unreal after her experience at the Higgins'. She washed and dressed for supper as if in a dream, not even able to laugh it away when she realized she had fastened the buttons on her dress incorrectly.

John's day flew by as he struggled to keep track of his ill laborers and their replacements. Many sought to continue at the mill even though they carried the disease, entreating him to allow them to stay on so as to have the money to buy food and pay the rent. Despite that, he still found time to worry over Margaret's visit to Mary Higgins and the Boucher children, especially after hearing that Boxer, one of the first to fall ill, had died. When John asked, Nicholas Higgins expressed grave concern over the condition of the children, revealing another neighbor as victim to the disease. Thus, John breathed a sigh of relief when the mill whistle sounded and he could return home to check on Margaret himself. He impatiently pulled on his jacket and hat as he walked down the steps and across the mill yard.

After dressing for supper, John entered the dining room only to find his mother seated alone in the room. "Good evening, mother," he greeted her, then hurried on, "Where is Margaret?"

Mrs. Thornton sniffed. "I have not seen her since she snapped at me this morning and –"

John did not even let her finish, turning to the corner where the butler stood as normal. "Edward, has the mistress returned?"

"Aye, sir," Edward replied, "I believe she is preparing herself for supper."

Margaret rushed down the stairs, knowing that she would be late to supper. Sure enough, when she turned the corner into the dining room, both John and Mrs. Thornton waited. "I am sorry for keeping you," she breathed.

"Untimely arrival suggests that one considers herself more important than those she has inconvenienced," Hannah Thornton quipped without thought. It was a statement she had used constantly to teach her children punctuality.

Margaret could not find the grace to look apologetic and might have responded if John had not spoken then.

"Margaret, I began to worry when I did not find you here. Come, sit." They prayed and then, as Edward served, John again took up the conversation. "How did you find the Higgins and Boucher family?"

"Unwell," she replied, selecting a slice of roasted beef, "It appears you were correct in your hesitation before determining the illness to be mild. All of the children are now ill and I would not be surprised if Mary is or shall be soon."

"And Nicholas with her," John added.

"Yes," Margaret continued, "It is alarming to consider the number of entire households that may already have the sickness."

"You seem to wish ours among them," Hannah snapped, her fears and frustrations pushing their way out despite her attempt to remain civil.

John stopped cutting his meat and turned to his mother, his lips tight, silently asking for her support. Hannah nodded, knowing. Margaret missed the entire exchange.

"You are right to worry over the families," John explained to Margaret, "In times of illness the parents often work themselves to death in order to continue feeding their children. If they cannot, some die that might have survived if they had not starved."

Margaret felt sick at the thought and pushed her plate away, sure she could not eat another bite while others went hungry just outside the mill gate. She just had to help those families! Ready to say as much, Margaret glanced up and met Mrs. Thornton's eyes, which still held condemnation for her earlier outing. Thus, Margaret remained mute, determined to speak to her husband about this matter.

"I am finished," John declared, rising, "Edward, tell Molly the meal was delicious as always." Edward nodded. Margaret, eager to avoid one-on-one time with her mother-in-law, followed her husband from the room.

John escorted his wife into the library, their self-ordained sanctuary. He pulled her close in his arms and then kissed her. Meant to be a gentle show of affection, the kiss deepened as John let all his worries and anxiety from the day pour forth.

With her lips crushed against those of her husband, Margaret could not recall the thought that just minutes ago had seemed so pressing. Instead, she knew every place that he touched her. One of his hands traveled from her shoulder to her hand while the other brushed over her hair. They continued on their separate journeys over her shoulders, back, face. It was as though John's hands needed to know every inch of her. Margaret knew the same need. Pulling her lips away from his, Margaret asked, "Shall we retire?"

Consumed with longing, John nevertheless responded with a question of his own. "Are you certain?"

Equal parts embarrassment, fear, and longing of her own, Margaret replied, "Yes."

The young couple therefore hurried quietly up the stairs and into the master bedroom, shutting and securing the door behind them. Then, they stood uncertainly in the room. Knowing John waited for her action, Margaret moved to unfasten her dress.

"Wait," John protested, "May I?" Margaret nodded and John gently freed each black button down the front of his wife's dress. He then pushed it back off her shoulders and trailed first his fingers and then his lips over the smooth, white skin his actions exposed. Margaret gasped at the whisper of his breath against her skin. When John moved to untie her stays, however, Margaret stopped him with a hand, unbuttoning his coat and vest and then reaching up to untie his cravat. John slipped off all the offending articles and dropped them to the floor and removed his shirt, shoes, and pants, adding them to the pile. Husband and wife stood in their undergarments.

Margaret lifted her hands to her hair, freeing one pin after another. She kept her eyes on her husband, who swallowed hard as one section of hair after another tumbled free. Finally finished, Margaret set the hair pins on her vanity.

John reached out a hand to cup her face. Margaret stepped into his arms, as their lips met again, more urgently. Afire with their desire for one another, the couple moved to the bed.


	12. Chapter 12

~Chapter 12~

Hannah Thornton sat in the front living room, her needlework in hand but her hands unusually idle. This was not the only out of place feature; Hannah also found that she could not stop the corners of her mouth from turning up into a smile, something she normally considered an alarming show of emotion. If one of the servants had happened upon the room, Hannah was not sure what answer she might have given to their query as to her good humor; for, it was not something to be discussed in polite company. John and his wife had retired quite early and she had accidentally learned while going to her room for another spool of white thread that they did not sleep. Her motherly mind skipped straight from the joy of her son at this development to the possibility of grandchildren in the not so distant future. Realizing she now grinned stupidly, Hannah molded her expression into a slightly more subdued smile. _Why_, she thought with a start, _both Fanny and John will be having children_. The grin soon returned.

Julia, who had gone to the master bedroom to ready Mrs. Margaret Thornton for bed, stood in the kitchen, sharing her experience with Molly and Samantha listening eagerly. Agnes also sat in the room but pretended, as the lady's maid, that she was far above such gossip.

"I knocked at the door to be sure the mistress did not wait for me to help her with her dress and hair," she continued, "And sure but the master answered, all gruff and angry at the interruption, saying the mistress would inform me each night if she were to require my service and that I should not come again to their door in the evening without such invitation."

"What else? What else?" Molly urged, laughing.

Samantha added, "Surely if you interrupted them, you ought to have heard more!"

"Aye," Julia continued, satisfied with her tale as she spotted Agnes trying to subtly shift so as to better hear her words, "As I walked away, I could hear them both –"

"Come, come!" Edward interrupted, happening upon the story telling, "We are not so low a household as to have staff telling such bawdy tales. Julia, you know better than this."

Julia bowed her head, "So sorry, Mr. Brown. It will not happen again." She mouthed, 'later' to Samantha and Molly.

As Edward left the kitchen he allowed his expression of grave disapproval to fall away and happiness at the situation of the master and mistress to take its place. It should be so.

Some time later, Margaret and John lay side by side on the master bed, both utterly content, if a little warm. Margaret lazily traced her fingertips up and down John's right arm, a movement that John found utterly relaxing.

"You are not hurt, then?" John asked.

Margaret turned her head and smiled at him. "No."

A long silence ensued before Margaret, thinking back to earlier that night, said, "John."

"Yes?"

"Do you think this fever will cause many deaths?"

John, not ready for this turn in the conversation, considered the question. "Obviously, I cannot know the answer, but I do worry that it will. Are you frightened by it, Margaret? I would gladly send you and mother away for a time." _In truth,_ he added mentally, _it would remove my greatest fear_.

"No," Margaret answered, surprised, "I am only thinking of the working families and the starvation of which you spoke."

John remained silent for a time, his mind working over his wife's statement and considering the close connection that she felt to many of the workers. From their earliest meetings, his wife had criticized his lack of involvement in the lives of those he hired. At first, he had considered it an invasion of their privacy, and indeed, she had pushed too far once or twice for even Higgins to endure. However, John would readily admit that some of the recent innovations that he had adopted came of conversations with the laborers in the mill. Thus, perhaps it was in the best interest not only of John the husband but also John the mill owner to determine a way to keep the mill families fed even while too ill to work.

"We must feed them," John finally declared, causing Margaret to first rise to her elbows and then throw herself onto him in a spontaneous embrace.

"Do you mean it?" she cried. "Oh, John, thank you."

John basked in her pride.

"But however shall we feed them all?" Margaret asked, her mind working at top speed now that she had gained a blessing for her endeavor.

John yawned. "That, my Margaret, is a problem for tomorrow. I have every confidence that you will discover a solution."

"And what is my budget?" Margaret continued, barely registering the answer to her first query.

"I dare say we can spare a loaf of bread and some small amount of meat for each family," John answered, his eyelids drooping.

"However shall I know which families are in the most need and their residences?" Margaret wondered. When she received no answer, she glanced over and realized that John slept, lips slightly parted so that a whisper of breath escaped. Planting a kiss on those same lips, Margaret quietly offered, "Good night, John."

"Night, Margaret ," John slurred.

She lay for a long time in the darkness with ideas overflowing the banks of her mind, so that she repeated each mentally in the hopes of recalling them all in the morning. _I shall never fall asleep at this rate_, she lamented. But, eventually, she did.

Hannah woke late, surprised to be greeted upon opening her eyes not by the early tint of sunlight on the horizon but by the beast himself, yellow and hot in the morning sky. She realized a moment later that a noise had woken her, a knocking at her bedroom door.

"Yes?" she called.

"It is Agnes, mistress. Pardon me if I woke you, but I wanted to be sure you were well."

"Come in," Hannah commanded, thinking it well that the maid woke her or she might have slept the day away. All through dressing, Hannah reminded herself that she must be especially careful of the words and tone that she used with her daughter-in-law this day. Thus chastised, Hannah walked down the stairs to the first floor and found it empty of all but staff.

Excited by the plans of the previous night, Margaret woke early, dressed, ate, and immediately headed to the kitchen to talk over the feasibility of feeding the laboring families of Marlboro Mills, trying to ignore a dull ache in her stomach. She noted with happiness that Molly acted equally pleased by the idea, smiling and becoming flushed as Margaret talked. Indeed, Samantha and Julia also seemed to hang on her every word.

"I will ask Nicholas Higgins how many families are currently ill and then purchase enough baskets that we can fill and deliver," Margaret concluded.

"Aye, mistress," Molly replied, searching her mistress' face for some sign of the events of the night before.

Satisfied, Margaret headed for the mill, stopping only for her gloves and bonnet, as the weather appeared too warm for a coat. She stepped briskly across the yard, intent on completing her mission. Once inside, however, Margaret could not easily spot Higgins among the workers. He did not stand in his usual place. _Is he ill_? she wondered.

"Margaret!"

She turned at John's voice, her smile dying as she recognized the fury written across his face. Without attempting to speak to her, John took her arm and steered his wife out of the mill room, trying to control his emotion at the sight of her disobeying his wishes and mingling among the disease-ridden factory laborers. Only when they stood in the mill yard did John halt and take his wife by her shoulders. "What were you thinking, going in there?"

"I merely thought – "

"You did not think!" John accused, shaking her.

"It is you who are not thinking!" Margaret cried, dashing away tears of hurt. "You drag me about and shake me like an errant child. You berate me in the public yard. This day you are not - in any of the ways I have come to expect - my husband." Tearing free, Margaret stormed towards the gate, heading for the only place that might upset John more than the factory: the Higgins household.

Mary Higgins crouched in the cobblestone road that touched their front door, her aching head in her weary hands. The children were worse, the food from Margaret Thornton had run out, and to make matters still more dismal, Mary felt feverish herself. _If Father cannot work_, Mary despaired, _We will all of us starve or have to beg help of the Thorntons, either of which would kill Father_. A weak cry sounded from inside the house and Mary pushed herself up, praying God would have mercy on Milton. As she did so, a figure down the street called her name.

"Mary," Margaret greeted her friend, thinking how much more worn the girl looked than on her last visit. She took in the soiled dress, the red hands, and grey face. If Mary did not eat, sleep, and rest, she would lie beside her charges soon. "How are they?" she asked, as she drew near.

Mary merely shook her head and ushered Margaret into the house, noting with regret that Miss Margaret carried no basket with her today. She would have to go to the market herself, then, either now while Margaret watched the children or later and leave them on their own.

Despite the heat and light of the day, the windowless house remained chilly and so dark that Margaret had to wait a moment for her eyes to adjust once Mary closed the door. Inside, the children lay much as they had on Margaret's previous visit. Cora stood in the middle of the bed, wailing and holding her arms out for comfort.

"Go lie down, Mary," Margaret commanded. "I will care for the children." Mary debated for a moment heading to market now, but could not yet face the walk. Since no bed space remained unoccupied, Mary curled herself onto a blanket by the fire.

Margaret lifted Cora into her arms, rocking and soothing the girl until she quieted. The little girl's usually straight blonde hair curled with the moisture from her hot face and her chubby cheeks had such an unnatural blush that she appeared like a china doll. Margaret made the rounds from child to child, carrying Cora until she slept again. Seamus seemed the hottest; Margaret had to wait several minutes after touching his cheek before moving on to the next child. Anna appeared the most agitated, mumbling and tossing and turning. Once she had lain Cora back on the bed, Margaret took Anna in her lap, smoothing wet tendrils of hair from her forehead and brushing drops of water onto her dry, cracking lips.

"Mama?" Anna called, her eyelids fluttering.

"Hush, Anna," Margaret cooed, enveloping the little hand that opened and closed as if searching for something, "It is Miss Margaret. I have you."

"Mama?" Anna repeated, more desperately. Margaret felt choked at the sound of the child calling for her dead mother. She stroked Anna's palm with her thumb and the short fingers with their bitten off nails closed briefly over hers.

"I know you miss her," Margaret begged, a tear sliding free down her cheek, "But, Anna, baby, we need you here."

"Ma?"

Mary yawned, stretched, and rose, feeling no more rested but no more weary than when she had lain down. "She has been like that for a full day," she told Margaret.

"This sort of delirium means she is very ill," Margaret warned. "You must call a doctor."

"Aye," Mary agreed, thinking of the mostly empty earthenware cup sitting above the mantle for such occasions. She knew without counting that only enough money remained there for one doctor's visit. If she used it now, there would be nothing left. She glanced around the small room, her gaze resting for a moment on each child: Johnny, who had become man of his house and tried to remain a man for his siblings, Anna, made serious beyond her age by her parents' death, Patty and Keenan, twins who took their trouble-making to inhuman levels, Seamus, who shadowed his older brothers so that they seemed like triplets, and lastly little Cora, with her ready smile and giggling laugh that never failed to set off all the others. They had become Mary's own so that although she had long heard the other women talk of their first, second, and even third families, as epidemics such as this had killed all living children, Mary could not fathom losing this, her adopted first family.

"I must be going," Margaret admitted, lifting Anna off her lap and back into place on the bed. She smoothed the child's hair once more and kissed her burning forehead, frowning as the girl shivered. "Do you need anything?"

_Meat. Bread. A doctor,_ Mary longed to say, but could not for the fierce pride rushing through her. Aye, Margaret was a friend, but she had no true understanding of the world in which the Higgins and Boucher families existed. In such a world, charity was a sign of weakness, of failure. _For the sake of the children_, Mary decided, _I will ask Miss Margaret for help if we truly cannot get by without it and I will accept anything she offers, but I cannot do so now when we are not so very bad off_.

Margaret, finished bidding her goodbyes to each ill child, gave Mary's hand a quick squeeze and saw herself out. She stood for a moment in the sunlight, letting the warmth and hope it brought wash over her. She smoothed a hand over her wrinkled skirts, put on the bonnet that she held and tied it under her chin. After these last hours, Margaret resolved to decide upon the best means of feeding all the families fallen into the hold of the fever and to execute it the very next day. She nodded to herself and began her walk back to Marlboro Mills, her hard shoes keeping time against the cobblestones.

_Should I have asked?_, Mary wondered, worrying immediately over Anna and Seamus' conditions. _Perhaps if I hinted – no. But then, if they do not improve by tomorrow – _Mary rushed to the door, swinging it wide and squinting to see how far Margaret Thornton had gone. Mary could not even spot her. Exhausted physically and emotionally, Mary sank down on the corner of the closest bed.

"Mama?" Anna called, opening the hand that lay above the coverlet as though waiting for something – for someone.


	13. Chapter 13

~Chapter 13~

The closer Margaret came to home, the more she reconsidered her words and actions of the morning and found herself wanting. John had not forbidden her from visiting the home of her friends, despite his wishes to the contrary; he had merely asked that she avoid Marlboro Mills and in that Margaret had failed. In truth, she had been so selfishly involved with her own project that she had ignored the small warning her mind registered as she walked across the mill yard. In turn, when confronted by John's disappointment, Margaret had accused him of betraying her trust and his spousal duties when it was she who had done so. Thus, Margaret found herself caught in a true conundrum upon reaching the house; for, she wished to go at once and make her apology but to do so would be to again disobey his desires and enter the mill. Coming to a halt just before the stone stairs into the house, Margaret stood in the dust of the mill yard, ignoring the action taking place before her and concentrating everything on the dark figure visible through the mill's upper windows. _Look up at me_, she begged, praying, hoping, wishing for the chance to make amends before their not-so-private supper.

Paperwork offered John the necessary excuse to escape from the public eye after his embarrassing display. He still felt a rush of anger at the memory of Margaret so thoughtlessly risking her health by entering the mill. A sting of hurt followed his recollection of her accusations: that he treated her like a child, that he acted as bully rather than husband. He glumly paged through the account book, filling in slots and adding sums, losing himself for a few minutes before again this morning's events resurfaced. Each time before when they had argued, he had acted the part of the penitent for Margaret, soothing over their silly disagreements and hurts. This time, though, he could not do it. If Margaret wanted this rift healed then, by God, she would have to initiate the conversation. This probably meant that there would be none. Tonight, then, would be nothing like the last. With a grunt of frustration, John set his pen aside and ran his hands over his face. _Marriage_, he thought,_ should be easier than this._ Husband and wife cared for one another; why could neither long remain at peace? Rising, John resolved to overcome his growing depression by walking the floor below. He did not see his wife in the yard below, gazing up at him.

At the sight of John turning away, ignoring her, Margaret's heart sank. She pressed forward with her plan to enact a system of feeding the families, walking directly into the house and down the hall to the kitchen, instructing Molly to purchase two dozen baskets and to plan on filling them each day with the help of the maids. Yet, for all that Margaret still felt strongly about the feeding of the ill families of Marlboro Mills, she could not erase the repetition of the harsh words she had used against her husband; they played over and over in her mind. All too soon, she was called to supper.

Margaret entered the dining room and was momentarily relieved to find her husband absent and only Mrs. Thornton awaiting her arrival. Perhaps he would return from the mill later and she could immediately offer him the apology he so richly deserved. Yet, only moments after she had taken her seat, John entered.

He crossed the room and seated himself beside her, then waited watching Margaret's stillness for a moment before speaking. Margaret did not even lift her eyes from her plate. "Are you well?"

"Yes and no," Margaret replied, longing to throw herself in his arms and beg forgiveness and simultaneously reddening at having to profess her apology before her mother-in-law. "I am physically well but fear I have again fallen from your good graces with my imbecilic performance this morning."

John nodded.

Filled with rising fear by his lack of reaction, Margaret asked, "Do you have the time to speak with me privately?"

He nodded again.

But halfway through a terribly silent supper, Mr. and Mrs. Watson arrived for an unexpected visit. John and Mr. Watson retired into the parlor while the ladies retreated to the drawing room. Fanny Watson was all abuzz with the plans of all of the mill owners and their wives to retreat to the country until the sickness released its hold over Milton.

"Why, I told my Watson that I should think it right to leave ourselves should the sickness spread up from the lower classes!" Fanny fanned herself as though faint at the thought of sharing anything with those outside her social status. "We have determined to write the Hardings in preparation for such a necessity."

Margaret, distracted by her continual berating of herself over the fight with John, did not bother to speak up over the unchristian example set by leaving the poor and sick to fend for themselves. In truth, she barely acknowledged it.

"Should you not also consider to which of our friends you will go?" Fanny suggested.

Hannah noticed her daughter-in-law's uncharacteristic silence on the subject which had so recently caused fireworks in their home. She immediately connected Margaret's behavior to the dinner table conversation, which had been more of a monologue. What could Margaret have done now that would so quickly alienate her from John? Noticing Fanny's pout begin at the lack of reaction from her companions, Hannah stepped in, "We had not yet considered it, Fanny. Who would you suggest?" She continued steering her daughter away from the topic and covering for her distracted daughter-in-law.

John Thornton found it immensely difficult to speak with Mr. Watson, not only because he was an arrogant man with little of consequence to add to any conversation, but also because he longed to end this standoff with Margaret. During dinner he had been unable to read her reaction, knowing her surprise at his minimal answers but unable to tell if she was more hurt or angry at his distance. He glanced up to find Watson watching him expectantly.

"I apologize," John stated. "Did you say something? My mind was elsewhere."

"I only mentioned that you might send your wife and mother with us, should you continue in your hair-brained scheme to stay out the illness in Milton."

John clenched his hand at the condescending tone of his brother-in-law, with whom he preferred no connection. "I will care for my family as I see fit and as the situation becomes more clear," he quipped, pouring and then offering a brandy to Watson to soften the harshness of his words. For all that John did not enjoy this relation, the man was family.

"Certainly," Watson returned, easily, sipping the proffered liquor. "I only meant to offer myself as an escort for the ladies should they require one in your absence."

John nodded, drinking his own brandy in one gulp.

The two parties remained separate for over an hour, during which time Margaret became so flustered by her own thoughts that she thrice failed to hear a question aimed at her and had to claim a headache and retire. Thus, when John and Watson entered the parlour, they found only Mrs. Hannah Thornton and Mrs. Fanny Watson awaiting them. Bored by the slow conversation, Fanny urged her husband in none too subtle whispers to end the visit.

"It was lovely of you to stop by so unexpectedly," Hannah offered, placing the most emphasis on the final word and waving Edward in to escort Mr. and Mrs. Watson to the door.

As soon as they had gone, John made his own excuses, "It has been a long evening, mother. I am going to retire."

"Are you all right, John?" Hannah could not help but ask.

He smiled, wanly, "I wish I knew."

Hannah pressed her hand to his arm. "I am here if you need to talk."

John entered the bedroom quietly, expecting to find Margaret abed as his mother had claimed. Instead, she sat on one of the windowsills with her feet tucked up beside her, staring out the window. He had to hold himself back from going to his wife immediately. She looked so small and forlorn. But she must bridge this gap herself.

"You wished to talk?" John said, more a statement than a question.

Startled, Margaret jerked her head around. She took in almost instantly the strange distance between them and the rigid way he stood, almost formal. Rising, Margaret came to stand before him like a penitent child. "I have no explanation for my words and actions," she admitted, wringing her hands. "My only defense is that I have not long worn the cloak of wife and therefore have not fully understood the role of obedience."

He offered nothing, folding his arms before him and thinking how neatly she avoided taking any real blame upon herself.

"John, please, I swear before God and on the graves of my parents that I will obey your wishes in this and every other matter if you will only let the slate of this morning be wiped clean." _He will not even meet my eyes!_ Margaret cried internally, looking away to avoid acknowledging his apparent indifference.

"Do you have nothing more to say?" he asked.

"What more would you have me say?" she begged desperately. "Every mistake of this morning was mine. Every word I spoke a terrible falsehood. I am completely at fault and cannot do anything but beg your forgiveness." Margaret felt a terrible aching pain within her, a sorrow too great for tears. She made herself meet her husband's eyes and found, to her utter surprise, that the corner of his mouth had just begun to twitch into a smile.

"You have it," John said, simply. Relief washing over her, Margaret stepped forward into his arms, which closed around her. He pressed his lips to her hair and sighed. The sweet scent of her soap filled John's nose, reminding him of the scene that had taken place in this bedroom only the night before. How beautiful his Margaret had look then, letting her hair tumble free of its pins. Blood pounding at the thought, John shifted their embrace. He pressed her more insistently against him, turning her face up so that her lips met his.

Margaret felt afire. Her mouth parted at the pressure of John's insistent tongue. Her breath hitched as he broke the kiss only to lead her wordlessly to the bed. "I love you," she breathed as his teeth grazed her throat, sending delicious shivers down her spine.

John froze. After a moment, Margaret pushed his face back so she could read his expression. "What is it?" she asked.

"I -" John stumbled over his words. "You have never before said those words to me."

"Neither have you," Margaret replied.

"That is not so," John argued, sitting back. "I told you of my love the first time I asked for your hand."

"Aye," Margaret shot back, "and never again."

"I could not bear to have them shoved in my face a second time," he answered, looking away.

"They never will," Margaret swore, kissing his lips softly.

"Say it again," John insisted.

Margaret pressed her lips shut between two fingers. "My lips are sealed," she answered, playfully.

John growled in response, pinning her down to the bed and proceeding to test the seal with his lips.

Margaret broke. "I love you," she stated again.

"And I you," John returned, releasing her arms and cradling her face in his hands. "More than I ever thought possible the first time that I proposed."


	14. Chapter 14

~Chapter 14~

After their eventful day and evening, husband and wife lay tangled together in sleep all night so that when John attempted to rise in the predawn hours, Margaret woke. "Is it morning already?" she asked, mournfully, reaching out and lacing her short fingers through his long, lean ones to keep her husband from quitting their bed completely.

"Yes, my love," John replied, running a finger of his free hand down her cheek and leaning close to steal a kiss from her tempting lips. Pouting, Margaret tugged John back down onto the bed, which he allowed. She settled herself against him, her head resting in the crook of his neck and her arms wrapping around him.

"Margaret," John began after a moment, "I must go."

"Just a moment longer." The whisper of her soft lips against his neck, a reminder of the night before, sent a rush of heat through John's body. He moaned aloud and rolled over so that his wife lay beneath him.

"You should not have done that," he warned.

Margaret smiled in the secret way that only her husband knew as she teasingly traced her fingertips lightly over the bared skin of John's neck and chest in the way that he so enjoyed. "Is that so?" she asked, coyly.

It was an hour later when John regretfully rose from the master bed again. Margaret followed, pushing back the heavy curtains to welcome the pink warmth of dawn, which washed over the still dark bedroom.

"You needn't rise just because I do," John was quick to assure her, dropping a kiss atop her head and then crossing the room to dress. After washing his face, neck, and arms, he slipped an undershirt and then a white shirt over his head and selected his usual black suit and cravat.

Margaret turned from her station at the window to watch him, thinking how much things had changed since their first shy night together. She smiled in remembrance of her embarrassment then that Mr. Thornton would be so bold as to change into his nightshirt before her. Such a lifetime ago it seemed and how unhappy she had been, still consumed in sorrow over her parents' loss and fearful of a life of uncertainty with Mr. John Thornton. How she longed to be able to reassure her past self of the wonderful gift she had gained in her marriage to John. She would not undo one moment of the stumbling steps that had brought them to this moment.

Thankful for all that she now had, Margaret walked over to where John sat tying his shoes and ran a hand through his already tousled hair.

"You need not rise, love. You could remain abed for at least another hour," John again stated.

"I would rather be with you than in bed asleep," she assured him. "Besides, had I slept in I would have missed this sunrise. Is it not the most beautiful one you have ever seen?"

Looking at his wife, her brown curls haloed in the rosy light and her eyes shining with love, John could only nod.

Anna died at sunrise with a horrible shuddering sigh. Mary had lain beside her all night, begging God for just one more breath and then one more. The little chest rose and fell less and less often as the hours passed, but it always did. Until suddenly it did not. Mary could not believe at first that God would be so cruel as to deny her tiny prayer. She waited a whole minute before her brain would accept that the little girl, the still figure in her arms, was dead. Then, a terrible cry broke free of Mary's chest, rising through her lips which were parted in shock. It woke Nicholas who sat slumbering in a chair before the fire and Johnny whose fever had broken the previous day. Nicholas merely clenched his jaw and rubbed a weary hand over his face, but Johnny scrambled over the bed to his sister.

"Anna, Anna!" he screamed, shaking her. When she did not move or breathe, Johnny turned hard little fists on Mary. "Let her go! Let her go! What did you do?"

Enveloped in her own sorrow, Mary could not even comfort the boy. Instead, it was her father who picked Johnny up and crushed him in a tight hug. "She's gone, son," Higgins told him, "She's gone." He made the harsh words into a chant and rocked the broken-hearted boy until his hard fists turned to tears and wailing.

Johnny clung tight to his adoptive father, pressing his face insistently against the large man's chest so that rough cotton fabric blocked out the rest of the world. He felt at once ashamed for weeping like a baby and for being unable to act as man of the family and also so full of sorrow and fear of abandonment that he thought he might never be able to stop crying and would drown like his father.

In the reality that awaited him outside of Nicholas' arms, he was the only one of his siblings who had beaten the sickness. Anna lay dead and the others ill around her. It was his fault for getting the others sick. Maybe if the others all died – a loud sob accompanied this thought – Nicholas would be so mad that he would put Johnny out on the streets. Maybe he already was that angry and only hiding it at the moment. Johnny snuck a peek at Nicholas, but his face was unreadable.

He couldn't face the idea of being comforted by someone who hated him and shoved away, running back to the bed and again shaking his sister. "Anna! Anna!" When he again received no response, Johnny turned his anger on God. "Why?" he sobbed to the ceiling, "It's my fault, my fault! My sister didna' do nothing wrong!"

Nicholas had let his son go when he fought his way free, but upon hearing these words uttered he again gathered Johnny in his arms. "Hush, now. Hush. You mustna' blame yourself."

"I g-g-got them all sick," the little boy bellowed.

"An' who gotcha sick?" Nicholas asked.

"S-someone at the mill," Johnny answered, more calmly.

"Aye," Nicholas continued, "An' who gottem sick?"

"Dunno," Johnny admitted, his tears now stopped and only a soft hiccup interrupting his speech.

"Didja want to get th'others sick?"

Johnny snapped up as though accused. "Naw!"

Nicholas smiled at his conviction. "Didja get sick o'purpose?" he persisted.

"Naw."

"So then, y'aren't to blame for any of this," Nicholas concluded.

Relief washed over Johnny, visible in his expression.

"Now be a good lad and help Mary while I tell the master that I willna' be to work these next two days." Johnny nodded, swallowed hard, and then got down from Nicholas' lap.

Nicholas kissed Mary's head and pulled her tight into a hug before taking his coat and cap and heading for the mill. Outside, the sun shone brightly through the soot-stained clouds, but Nicholas did not notice; the whole walk to the mill he berated himself internally for letting Johnny work at the mill and carry the illness back to the others. Anna had died for his idiocy.

Since she had risen with her husband, Margaret sat in the front room enjoying the warmth of the morning rays and waiting for the rest of the house to rise or for Molly to complete her preparation of the first round of food baskets for the workers, whichever came first. She therefore spotted Nicholas Higgins arriving late to work. Fearful that one of the children might be worse, she ran from the front room into the hall and out onto the porch with her bonnet in her hands. "Nicholas!" she cried.

He nodded to show he had seen her and headed for the stairs rather than the mill. Margaret met him at the bottom, still tying her bonnet strings.

"What brings you here so late?" Margaret asked.

Nicholas removed his cap and twisted it in his hands. "I come to tell the master that I willna' be at work these two days. Our Anna has gone and left us for a better place."

"No!" Shocked, Margaret left off tying her bonnet and put a hand to Nicholas' arm. "Nicholas, I am so sorry. Please, let me talk to Mr. Thornton and give my love to Mary and the children."

"I thank you, Miss Margaret. Truth be told, I wasna' sure I could face the master today." Nicholas forced a smile, put on his cap, and headed for the undertaker's to order a tiny coffin.

Margaret pulled on her gloves with unsteady hands, floored by the thought that sweet Anna had died. Her mind carried her through every moment she had shared of the little girl's life as her feet carried her into the mill and up to John's office.

John looked up to find his wife standing in the doorway and could not believe it. Had last night meant nothing? Fear and anger battled for control over his emotions, but luckily Margaret gave a little hiccoughing breath that alerted him of the circumstances that had caused her to again enter the mill. "Margaret?" he asked, taking her hands. "What is it?"

"Little Anna Boucher has died," Margaret choked out. Her eyes flooded with tears at the reality of speaking the words aloud. John stepped forward and enveloped her in his arms, pushing off her bonnet so that she could be fully embraced. In this position, he could feel the warmth of her hair from the morning sun but also the slight tremble of her form from the news.

"I am so very sorry, Margaret," he offered.

_Those poor children_, Margaret thought, _losing their mother and father and_ _now a sister. Why if I ever lost Fred_ – this thought could not be completed. "I must take a basket to them," Margaret decided.

John balked. "You must not think me untouched by the loss of Higgins and his family; yet, this event only intensifies my belief in the need for you to distance yourself from the mill and the mill workers. My sister and her husband leave this day for the fresh air and good health of the countryside. I will call on them and ask that you and Mother be among their party."

"I cannot abandon the workers," Margaret protested, surprised. She pulled back from his embrace. "And what of you? Am I to depart from my husband's company with no means of assuring myself of his wellbeing? You will find me unmoved on this matter. I shall not go."

John nodded, accepting this. He had known she would protest, but he added his own qualification. "I will allow you to stay," he began. Margaret raised an eyebrow. "Aye, allow, Margaret. If," he continued, "you remain in the house at all times in order to avoid falling ill with this fever. This will give you means to continue feeding your beloved mill workers and to keep an eye on this errant husband whom you consider unable to care for himself. I, however, will sleep in my office. I will not be the cause of your illness."

The tears now did spill free of Margaret's dark eyes. "Have I no say in this?"

"None," John firmly replied. "Now kiss me goodbye, dear girl, and go back to the house."

Margaret longed to throw herself into her husband's arm and cling to him until this damned – she blushed a bit as the word entered her mind – fever released its grasp on Milton. Yet, echoing footsteps told of the approach of another, so she had to settle for a quick embrace, a lingering look, and a soft, "I will miss you." Even so reserved, this farewell near to broke John's resolve. Only the news of Anna Boucher's death kept him strong.

"I love you, Margaret," John offered.

"And I you," Margaret returned, with a sad smile. "I pray this time to pass quickly." Then she turned and made her way down the stairs, across the yard, and up onto the porch of the house. She paused there, took a deep breath as though to store up fresh air for her impending imprisonment, and then disappeared into the house. John knew for he watched her every step, drinking it in. When she had gone, John sighed and turned to face Williams, who stood in the doorway waiting.

_I pray the same, dearest Margaret_, he thought.

Margaret Thornton traced her finger over the sooty window pane, unable to clear her view for the soot was all on the exterior of the pane. Instead, she watched through the dirt-tinted windows as the factory workers filed out of the mill, picking up her baskets as they went. How she longed to personally hand out those parcels of food as she had planned only three weeks before, giving food and receiving in return information on how their parents and children, siblings and spouses fared. She no longer knew who lived and who died but waited alone in the large empty house for this accursed fever to release its hold over Milton. Even Mrs. Hannah Thornton had gone when Fanny required a traveling companion. Now only Margaret, Molly the cook, and Edward, the butler, remained. Agnes, of course, had gone with Mrs. Thornton, and Julia and Samantha left when members of their families fell ill. With the number of deaths having just this last week reached over one hundred, John urged Margaret daily to leave. Margaret, in return, begged her husband to leave the mill in Mr. Williams' capable hands and seek refuge with her in their home. Neither would bend.

There – John exited the mill, immediately glancing up and locking eyes with Margaret where she waited. Even at this distance, she saw his exhaustion in the curve of his shoulders and pressed her fingers against the glass to touch his image. She had grown up much in these last three weeks, learning fully how to love another more than herself. Every moment, every breath was accompanied by a prayer to spare her city – for it truly was hers now – but especially to spare her John. In spite of, or perhaps because of, this constant worry, her days had settled into a rhythm that she now followed unthinkingly.

Turning reluctantly away from the view of her husband, Margaret walked back to the kitchen and fetched the plate that Molly had prepared, taking it back to the front of the house and setting it out on the steps. She paused, securing a loose strand of hair and basking in the late evening sunlight, delighting in the slightest cool breeze after the stagnant air of the house. "Go back inside, Margaret," John demanded, his frown visible even from halfway across the yard.

"I miss you, John," she breathed. He smiled in acknowledgement of her statement, but still waved her in. She complied, returning to the dreary darkness of the hall and pushing the door closed on the world, but stood with her ear to the heavy oak door and listened to the footsteps of her husband, her closest contact in twenty-eight miserable days. "John," she called when it sounded as if he had reached the top of the steps.

"Margaret, my love," he responded. "You make my heart leap with fear when you risk your health that way."

"I am sorry," she began, "however, you risk yourself every day and I have no way of knowing until this late hour that you are well." A silence.

"I am also sorry," John finally stated. "Call for Edward to bring a chair and we can converse as I eat." It was a gift, an apology; every day before John had left the porch immediately upon collecting his meal so as to avoid infecting his wife.

Margaret, unable to consider stepping out of earshot of her husband's voice for a second of this precious time, seated herself on the carpeted floor, eager for even this slight connection to those she loved. "How are the mill families?" she asked.

"Some better than others," John admitted. "Little Cora is not thought to be able to pull through and Keenan died yesterday." He pressed his hand up against the door, trying to offer her his strength. He had started with the worst news.

Margaret gasped, unable to imagine the two little children who had worked their way into her heart ill, much less dying and dead. Cora's death would mean half the Boucher children had been lost. She could not yet summon true sorrow; her tears would be shed later when the news sunk in, most likely when she lay alone in their empty bed. Many tears had been shed there of late. "Go on," she urged him, unable to deny the comfort of his voice even if the words it sounded cut like a knife.

"Higgins is still here every day," John assured his wife, pained that he could not truly comfort her. "The families bless you for your baskets. They can concentrate on caring for their loved ones now that they do not need to worry about feeding those who live."

"And you?" Margaret interjected. "Are you still well?"

"Yes," he stated. "I am well."

The crack in the door darkened as Margaret and John talked. "My love," she said reproachfully as soon as she noticed, "The sun is long set and you sit in the cold, damp air. Go to your office and warm yourself."

"Good night, Margaret," he replied, teasing her to ease their parting. "Someday soon this illness will end and I will expect to be welcomed back with open arms. Do not get too used to having your run of the house."

"Never," she declared. "I am so lonely in this enormous, empty house that I would gladly welcome half of Milton to share in its running." Margaret brushed her fingertips against the door, imagining her husband doing the same. He was.

She sat for a few minutes alone in the living room, but the lamps that drove back the darkness could not touch her aching heart so she headed up the stairs to the slight comfort of sleep.

John sat up long into the night, trying in vain to imagine the soft touch of his wife's fingertips across his skin, the sweet scent of her hair, and the shy smile and soft blush that she wore when they were alone. This distance was maddening. However, he had only to consider the possibility of her flushed with fever lying on her sickbed or drained of color and lying in a casket to cause a pounding rush of fear and determination to flow through him.

The next morning, Margaret busied herself as she did every day with the preparation of the baskets. The mill workers returned the empty containers as they arrived at work, some carrying two or three so as to bring food to those too ill to work. Molly prepared the food after supper the night before, Margaret packed the baskets in the morning, and Edward carried them through the house and placed them on the steps where John would pick them up and place them in the mill yard. Margaret watched the synchronized routine between Edward and John begin, each timing their trips so as to remain as far from one another as possible. Margaret leaned against the front window, straining to catch a glimpse of her husband, her closest view of him. It was aggravating, only seeing the man she loved in bits and pieces. A shoulder, a glimpse of a profile, a strong arm. Suddenly he stepped fully into her view, wiping sweat away despite the cool of the morning. She thought nothing of it, knowing the weight of the baskets and the exertion of the climb up and down the steps, but his face was flushed more red than she would expect and his eyes had an almost glassy look. "God damn it, John," she burst, flying into the foyer and flinging open the door between them. He did not even have time to order her back before she had cornered him and placed a cool hand on his warm brow.

"What are you doing?" he cried.

"You are sick!" she accused.

"It is nothing," he replied, "Now get inside."

"No." She stamped her foot in a very unladylike way. "You know as well as I do that you have the fever. Get inside and to bed this instant."

"Margaret, I will be fine," he argued.

Her eyes blazed in fury at his pig-headedness. "Swear to me that unlike half of Milton you will survive this fever."

He could not. She clung to him, begging, "Will you leave me to worry myself sick every minute that I do not see you? Do you think I could survive that better than this fever?" Her brown eyes shone with unshed tears and her arms stretched wide as they had once before on this porch to protect him.

John swallowed down his fears and enveloped her in his arms, knowing that if their roles had been reversed – thank God they had not – he would not have kept away. "Calm yourself, my love. I will come."


	15. Chapter 15

~Chapter 15~

Margaret clung to her husband as they entered the house, unwilling to ever again allow any distance between them. Once inside, however, she steeled herself to fight this illness with everything within her reach. "Edward," she commanded. "Go for the doctor."

Despite his weariness after carrying the heavy baskets, Edward would gladly have gone – if there had been anyone for whom to go. "Begging your pardon, Mrs. Thornton, but Milton has no doctors as of the present." He tugged at one end of his mustache in apology and agitation at being unable to complete his task.

"No doctors!" Margaret exclaimed. She turned her face up to her husband's and found confirmation in his expression. "Why did you not tell me?"

John smiled grimly. "And risk you taking on the coat of doctor as well as grocer for the city? There was and is nothing to be done. The doctors cannot cure the fever and so have fled it along with every other able individual." He squeezed her hand comfortingly. "Now, I long for my own bed. Come tuck me into it."

Margaret almost gasped aloud at John's words. He would not readily go to bed at this time unless he was truly experiencing the fatigue of illness. She collected herself, nodded, and carefully guided him up the stairs and into their bedroom only to find that it was not sickness that caused John Thornton to seek his bed.

Once inside the door, John crushed his wife against him, tangling his fingers in her hair and impatiently unfastening the buttons that ran down the back of her grey dress. Now that she was in his arms again, he could not keep control of himself. "John!" Margaret cried in surprise. His name on her lips only increased his urgency. His lips burnt a path from her lips down her neck and over the skin that his fingers exposed.

"Margaret. Margaret. I have missed you more than mere words could ever express."

"Then do not use words," she replied.

Some time later, Margaret sat watching her husband slumber. The darkness of the room disguised his fever-rouged complexion as merely flushed in sleep. She reached out and brushed a hand over his forehead, noting with chagrin that it seemed warmer than it had this morning on the porch. John blinked, focused on her kneeling beside him, and tugged at her arm. "Rest," he urged. So she curled herself beside him, her head on his shoulder and her arm across his chest. Thus situated, she dropped off quickly to sleep with the reassuring thrum of his heartbeat pounding in her ear.

First Anna had died in Mary's arms. Then Keenan. Now Patty, when he had seemed to be recovering, followed his twin. Mary did not even have the strength to cry. She sat beside the boy's still body, unable to stop trembling. Her father was off to work, as he had been each day. Johnny sat asleep, holding little Cora's hand as if forcing her to cling to life. She could not face the moment that Johnny woke to find he had held vigil over the wrong sickbed. To find that he had lost another sibling. It was all too much. Too much. Despair choked Mary until she had to escape. She burst from the home, gasping for air. Sinking down in the hot summer dust, she shook with sorrow but still no tears. Only pain and emptiness and a terrible internal chill.

When Margaret woke in the dim room, her face and arm were damp with her husband's sweat. He worsened. Margaret's heart fluttered in sudden panic. Without medicine, what hope had she of escaping the loss that nearly every household in Milton knew? She rose, careful not to wake John but determined to act quickly in order to prevent this love story of theirs from so quickly becoming a tragedy.

Molly stood in the pantry reviewing their stock and thinking with growing fear that it might not be enough. Having just returned from the market, Molly knew only too well that nothing more would be added to their store until the fever ceased and merchants once again dared to bring their wares into the city. Molly gave a decisive nod. It was time to broach the subject of halting the giving of food to the mill workers with Mr. Edward Bates. Had she a family of her own in Milton, Molly might have felt more sympathy for the workers and their families, but she did not. Thus, she saw the food baskets as a nuisance that threatened to empty the coffers of the house at Marlboro Mills and cause Molly to fail in her job of feeding the family within.

Margaret strode down the stairs, through the hall, and into the kitchen by means of the heavy white door. "Molly," she called, when she did not immediately spot the cook within.

Hearing the mistress, Molly exited the pantry, resolving to save the matter for Mr. Bates to handle, as he had the most standing with the family. "Yes'm," she called, coming out from the pantry across the room and dropping into a curtsey.

Margaret waved the formality away. "Have you any knowledge of medicines?"

"No'm," Molly answered, defensively. "Doctoring isna' among m'duties."

"Of course not," Margaret assured her. "I only wondered if you knew of some herbal remedy that we might use to lower Mr. Thornton's fever."

Molly wiped her hands on her apron out of habit. She tilted her head to the side, thinking. "There is sommat that m'mother used to make," she finally offered.

Margaret had to suppress a desire to clap her hands. She had been so certain after their first exchange that the woman would be unwilling to admit anything, lest it be mistaken for a declaration of her ability to doctor others. "Thank you," was all Margaret offered.

Molly nodded her head in response. She waited a moment, then stated, "I will have Mr. Bates bring it up."

"Oh no," Margaret protested. "I would so love to watch." Suddenly, she realized that she might again have overstepped. "That is," she added hastily, "Unless you would rather I did not."

Molly opened and closed her mouth, repressing her desire to admit to the mistress that she would rather not have an audience. It was not so much the presence of another but rather the worrisome realization that she had walked herself into a situation where should the master die, Molly would most likely lose her position. She longed for the space in which to berate herself. Instead, Molly forced a smile that appeared more like a grimace. "Nay, mistress," she managed. "You are welcome to stay."

Unsure how to read Molly's reaction and longing to stay, Margaret did just that. She watched with interest as Molly gathered a strange assortment of ingredients: honey, vinegar, and salt. Molly moved with efficient certainty through the kitchen, putting a kettle of water on to boil and measuring a pinch or dollop of each of the chosen ingredients into a bowl that she selected from so high on a shelf next to the coal stove that Margaret was uncertain if the petite woman could reach it. Finally, the kettle on the stove began to shriek and Molly looped a towel around the hot handle and poured the steaming liquid into the mixing bowl. A cloud of sour, vinegary vapor rose from the bowl, causing Margaret to suddenly feel sick. She suppressed the urge to vomit only with the greatest will, gagging repeatedly. John was to drink that?

Appearing unaffected by the terrible odor, Molly poured the offensive liquid that resulted from her mixture into a decorative teapot, gathered it and a teacup and saucer onto a tray, and motioned for Margaret to go before her from the kitchen. Margaret was only too happy to escape the small space for the clean air of the hall. She led the way from the kitchen to the master bedroom, then took the tray from Molly's hands, thanked her, and entered the bedroom.

"John?" Margaret called into the shadowy room.

"Mmm?" His sleepy reply caused Margaret to smile.

"I have a fever remedy made by Molly for you to drink," she informed him.

John struggled into a sitting position, lit a candle, and accepted the tray that his wife offered him, watching as Margaret opened the shades to let in the mid-afternoon sun. She returned to his side and poured him a cup of the concoction. Again, the smell overpowered her and Margaret hurriedly turned away after John took the cup from her hand.

"Margaret?" he asked, startled by her sudden movement.

"It is nothing," she assured him, "My stomach does not enjoy the scent of your drink." John sniffed, finding the odor unpleasant but not overpowering. He nodded and, as she turned back to him, took a sip. It was not nearly so bad as John had feared. He drained the rest of the cup and would have poured another if Margaret had not dropped to her knees, pulled the chamberpot from beneath the bed, and emptied her stomach into it.

"Margaret!" John cried in alarm. He set the tray on the nightstand closest him and crouched beside his wife. "You are unwell."

Spitting to rid herself of the acidic taste, Margaret shook her head. "As I stated, it is nothing more than an aversion to the concoction created by Molly." She allowed John to gather her close for a moment and then continued, "You, on the other hand, are hardly well enough to be out of bed. Return to your place and I shall tuck you in again."

"I believe myself much improved as a result of my lackadaisical morning. I would join you for dinner," John protested. A hand to his forehead informed Margaret that he did not lie. Thus, a few minutes later master and mistress descended the stair and entered the dining room.

Margaret, her stomach still somewhat unsettled, merely picked at her food, but she was relieved to see that John appeared to have a hearty appetite. They sat in companionable silence for some time until Edward, removing their plates, cleared his throat meaningfully.

"What is it, Edward?" John asked, distracted by the beginnings of a headache.

"I would speak to you of the current supply situation," Edward responded, vaguely, wondering if it might not be better for the master alone to hear his words.

"Supply situation?" John echoed. "Use not riddles, Edward. Of what do you speak?"

Edward nodded, placed the dirty plates behind him on the sideboard, and came to stand before them. "Sir, the epidemic in the city has caused the merchants to flee or find markets elsewhere for their goods. As a result, none remain within the city and there are no open shops or markets to be found. While the household is stocked for many months, the current ritual of providing for the mill workers will deplete it at a rate too high to ensure your own comfort." Edward left it at that, although he thought about adding that the Thorntons had already done more than any other household in Milton for their workers

Margaret opened her mouth to protest, but John cut her off with a hand over her own. "We will discuss this, Edward," John responded, "and give you our answer in an hour."

Edward nodded and excused himself, hoping he had done right by his duty and at the same time that he had not started a conflict between the young couple.

_I cannot believe that John would even consider shirking our duty to the mill families_, Margaret thought and parted her lips to say as much only to be again silenced by her husband.

"Let us withdraw to the library," John suggested, knowing well the flash in Margaret's dark eyes and the tension radiating from her were not to be suppressed. Indeed, they barely entered the room, walking side by side but not touching, before Margaret turned upon her husband.

"How can you even think of our own comfort when families in far worse situations than us might starve as a result?" she cried, incensed.

"We must consider our ability to feed the staff and ourselves," John stated, raising a hand to his throbbing temple.

"We have no way of knowing how long this will last," Margaret argued. "Should the fever end in a week and one single person die for lack of food, we will be responsible."

"In the same way," John responded, "Should the fever last another two months and we run short of food, what plan have you for feeding Edward and Molly? Is it fair to ask them to starve in order that we might feed others?"

"Is it fair to ask dozens to starve now so that four do not have the slight chance of starvation in the future?" Margaret would have continued on that vein but John winced and sank down into the brown armchair with his head in his hands. She replaced his hands with her own, cool against his hot brow. "The fever is worse!" she exclaimed.

"It is always worse come evening," John assured her, and then his eyes went wide as he realized what words had just escaped his tongue.

"Always?" Margaret repeated, growing hot, herself, with sudden anger. The touch of her hands on his brow ceased. "For how many days have you hidden this fever from me, John Thornton?"

John tried to catch her hand in his own, but she would not allow it. "A week plus one," he admitted, calling himself every kind of fool for his revelation. Silence. Margaret's dark eyes spilled over with tears but when John again reached for her, she avoided his touch. "Please talk to me," John begged.

"I cannot form words strong enough to illustrate my hurt," she choked. "Was I to be called for when you were so delirious with fever that you would not know me? Or would I have been left in the dark until a need for the undertaker arose?" She covered her face in her hands and gave in to the sobs that knotted her throat.

John rose and wrapped his wife in his arms, grateful when she did not resist. "I was wrong to act so selfishly," John declared. "I thought it selfless to hide my illness but seeing your reaction, I know that I betrayed your trust. I beg your forgiveness." Margaret only sobbed louder. "Darling girl," John cooed. "Tell me how to mend this and it will be done."

"I am so afraid," she confided, between sobs, "that even if I am with you, I cannot make you well. I fear the thought of life without you."

John hushed her softly and smoothed a hand over her hair. "It is true that I have been feverish for eight days," John stated. "Yet, in those days, I have been most feverish in the early morning and evening. Today is no different. Let us to bed now, wife. By late morning tomorrow, I swear that I will seem right as rain." Slightly reassured by his words, Margaret allowed herself to be led up the stairs to bed.

Nicholas walked hurriedly home from work, dreading the moment that he saw Mary's face and knew by the pain there that they had lost another of the children. It near to broke him every time. Yet, he could not bear one moment more of uncertainty and fear that had clouded his mind all day. It would be Cora, he told himself. Cora was dead. He clenched his jaw. Emotions did naught for the dead or those left behind.

As he rounded the corner, the flickering lights in most windows told of the families that still remained. That survived. With a start, he realized that his own home stood dark. Fear tightened its cold fingers around his heart. What could have happened? He broke into a run.

Mary lay senseless on the doorstep. Kneeling beside her, Nicholas placed a hand to her forehead, knowing before his skin met hers that his daughter had the fever. Lifting her in his arms, Nicholas struggled through the doorway.

"Is she dead?" Johnny asked from the shadowy darkness before Nicholas had even got in the door. "Patty and Seamus are." His lip trembled terribly. "Mary said Cora will be soon." The boy clung to his sister.

Nicholas swallowed hard. Would he and Johnny alone survive this scourge? "Mary isna' dead," he forced himself to say, as he gently laid her on a pallet by the fire, which had died down to embers in her absence. "You're certain the boys are gone?" A hand to each cold face confirmed it. Nicholas wearily carried Patty and then Seamus through to the back room, their tiny bodies surprisingly heavy. Or perhaps this is what it meant to feel the weight of another's death. He would go for the undertaker in the morning.

"Seamus is afraid o'the dark," Johnny protested, as Nicholas swung the door between the rooms closed.

"He's gone," Nicholas brusquely declared. He dampened a cloth and laid it tenderly on Mary's forehead, so consumed by love and fear that he did not at first realize the noise that grew to fill the room came from the boy.

Johnny buried his face into the quilted coverlet on which Cora lay and choked out the sorrow that had built up within him the entire day. For such a small boy, he had more than his share of losses and just at that moment he could not bear the load.

"Come." Nicholas lifted his son from the bed. Johnny had no choice but to drop his hold on his sister's hand or drag her off the bed. He felt certain in that moment that she would leave him. Not knowing the boy's fear, Nicholas, cradling Johnny, left the house. Outside, he walked a distance away and sat on a low stonewall that ran along the alleyway. Its surface had been smoothed by earlier generations and made a comfortable resting place. This was the first time that Johnny had been outside the home, the scene of his siblings' deaths, in days. He quieted slowly. When he finally sat up, taking in the cool air of the summer evening and the stillness that surrounded them, Nicholas patted him on the shoulder.

"We will get through this, Johnny," he promised. _We have to_, he added to himself.

Not so sure that he wanted to survive without his brothers and sisters, Johnny nevertheless nodded firmly and leaned back into his father's strength.

Wild dreams and thoughts worried at John's feverish brain. He thrashed in his sleep so that Margaret woke well before even John normally rose and knew her husband had not kept his promise. "Dear God, I need a doctor!" she burst. Margaret rose and poured water into the wash basin then ran one of John's cravats through the water and placed the damp cloth on his forehead. Uncertain what else to do, Margaret then went to the kitchen for more of Molly's fever potion. "The master worsens," she explained in none too steady a voice at Molly's surprised look.

Cursing herself for her foolish revelation, Molly nevertheless had no choice but to again create her mother's remedy. The mistress insisted that Molly did not need to carry the tray and thus Molly was left alone in the kitchen, hoping for the master and mistress' sake but also for her own that the ill man upstairs recovered.

Margaret became sick again while dribbling the foul concoction into her husband's mouth. This time no one offered her comfort. John, still restless, twisted and turned, causing what little of the liquid she managed to pour in his mouth to run out onto the pillows. Terrified, sick herself, and ever so lonely, Margaret began to cry.

Edward had come to check on the mistress after hearing from Molly about the master's poor condition. He could hear Mrs. Margaret Thornton's sobs from the stair landing and approached, uncertain whether to offer her comfort or solitude. "Mrs. Thornton," he finally called, knocking on the bedroom door. "May I be of any service?"

Margaret wiped her eyes and nose on her sleeve before pulling open the door. "Have you any skills in doctoring?" she asked, sarcastically.

"I have bled a man before," Edward offered.

Margaret nodded, "Do you have all the tools required?"

The first time Edward bled John, Margaret noted with relief that her husband's face lost its fever-rouged look and he was less agitated. Yet, in the following week, Edward bled John twice a day at the times he seemed most feverish and Margaret noticed that his fever did not improve, only his appearance. Indeed, John acted as though weakened by the healing act. Margaret grew so worried that she barely slept and could not eat. Even when Molly sent tray after tray of deliciously prepared meals, Margaret was so fearful for her husband that her nausea grew worse. Finally, she could no longer take the sight of her husband's life force draining from him.

Edward entered the master bedroom, carrying his bleeding knife and a dish in which to catch the blood. Margaret greeted him with a firm expression. "You will not need those instruments any longer," she stated. "They do not cure my husband and I will not see him further tortured."

Edward read her resolve and did not test it. "Is there aught that I could do for you, mistress?" he asked, "Some food, perhaps?"

Margaret shook her head quickly. "No food. Bring a bath and fill it with cool water."

"It would be no trouble to heat the water for you, mistress."

"The bath is not for me," Margaret explained.

Edward stepped back in shock. Had she gone mad? To soak the master in his current state would surely be to kill him. "Mistress, do not yet lose hope. The master may recover. Yet, to chill him so would surely damage his chances."

Margaret pressed her lips together in displeasure and certainty. "Am I not the mistress of this house?" she asked, her tone cold and hard. The Margaret of a week ago would have gasped at her uncharitable and utterly rude behavior. This Margaret, though, knew the pain of losing her husband by inches each day. She stood firm.

"You are, madam," Edward responded, bowing and going to do as he had been bid. He returned shortly with the unwieldy burden of the copper tub and then began to fill it with bucket after bucket of cool water, sharing glances with Molly but saying nothing of the mistress' madness.

"I require you to lift Mr. Thornton into the tub," Margaret commanded.

Edward balked again. "Madam," he responded. "I will bathe the master and tell you when the task is completed."

"Nay," Margaret declared. "I am his wife. I require you only to lift him to and from the tub."

Edward did as Mrs. Thornton told him, but was quite scandalized at the thought of man and woman together during a bath.

Margaret forgot Edward's shock, forgot her own exhaustion, forgot to worry about wagging tongues. All that mattered, all that filled her thoughts, was John. Edward had placed him into the bath water still clothed in a nightshirt, which Margaret removed with some trouble. She then removed her own skirts and climbed into the bath with her husband, cradling his head in her arms. Shivering, she nevertheless continued to cup her hands and pour the cool water over her husband's face, arms, chest, neck. "Please come back to me, John," she begged. "Please, John, please." Over the next twenty minutes, her pleas changed focus from her husband to God, himself. "Dear God," she cried, "You have taken so much already, in my parents, in my dearest friend, in my brother so far from home. I cannot also lose my husband." A knock at the door interrupted her.

"Mistress," Edward called. "Let me now remove the master from the bath." He had coached himself this last third of an hour on exactly what wording to use to both remain respectful to the mistress and to break her hysteria, the only explanation for her actions.

"A moment, Edward," Margaret responded, hurriedly climbing from the tub, putting her husband's nightshirt back on, and slipping back into her petticoats and dress, unwilling to risk taking the time to change her soaked undergarments. Edward might just decide she had taken full leave of her senses and come into the room uninvited. "I am ready," she stated.

Edward insisted Margaret leave the room while he changed the master into dry things and settled him back onto the bed.

Margaret returned to her husband's side, checking hourly for any signs of improvement or worsening. He seemed the same. She fell asleep beside him while waiting, her undergarments soaking a patch of the bed.

John woke slowly, disoriented at first by the parched feeling in his throat and the strange certainty that some time had passed since he had last been awake. He felt ever so tired despite that long period of sleep. Margaret lay on the bed beside him, but outside the covers. Her sweet face wore lines of worry even in sleep and John thought her cheeks seemed thinner, although it might have been the angle of his view. He lifted a hand, surprised at the difficulty of the simple task, and placed it on her head, stroking her curls with a finger.

Margaret blinked, her confusion mounting as she realized someone touched her hair.

"Hello, my love," John said, catching his breath at the sight of her beautiful dark eyes.

"John!" Margaret cried.

"I am well," he assured her. A hand to his forehead confirmed this and Margaret burst into tears, so astonished was she and so full of joy.


	16. Chapter 16

~Chapter 16~

So relieved was she at her husband's recovery, that Margaret quite forgot having sent a fearful note to her mother-in-law about John's condition. Thus, two days after John's fever broke, Mrs. Hannah Thornton arrived.

Hannah burst forth from the carriage without waiting for the coach to even still its wheels. She arrived absent Agnes, whom Fanny claimed she simply could not do without since her own lady's maid had fallen ill. Hannah seized her swinging skirts with a hand and raced up the stairs into the house, her mind consumed, as it had been since she received Margaret's missive three days before, with images of her son from infancy to the current day. Such a short life it had been. Hannah only prayed she had not missed its last moments. Oh, that she had never gone from Milton! She made the top of the stairs to the first floor and flung open the master bedroom door.

Margaret sat with her husband at every possible moment. She could scarcely believe the joy that filled her heart and oft spilled in tears from her eyes at the sight of his health improving. Just now, she watched him pour his tea with much steadier hands than the day before. "Is it hot enough?" Margaret asked, eager to please.

"Much better than that fever potion you forced upon me," John joked, confidently bringing the full cup to his lips.

"Aye," Margaret agreed, her memory of that moment so vivid that she could taste the acid in her mouth.

John, too, recalled his wife's reaction and took a moment to study her appearance. He was relieved that although she did appear thin – perhaps a side effect of her worry – his wife remained healthy. His heart swelled with gratitude. "Come, Margaret," he commanded, setting down his teacup and holding out a hand to her. "Kiss your husband."

Margaret gladly did as John bade. As their lips met, the bedroom door swung violently open.

"John!" Hannah cried, shocked at the sight of her apparently healthy son after all her preparations to enter the scene of his deathbed.

"Mother!" John replied, equally surprised by her sudden appearance when he had thought her in the country indefinitely. "What brings you hence?"

"Your failing health," said she.

"I wrote –" Margaret explained at the same time.

John smiled. "I am well, Mother," he explained unnecessarily.

Freed from the burdens of fear and grief, Hannah recovered her composure. She walked across the space, usurping Margaret's place beside John, pressed her lips to his forehead and brushed back an errant curl of his charcoal hair before serenely quitting the room.

John and Margaret met one another's eye and dissolved into silent laughter. "My mother is certainly come home," John finally managed. He sobered, remembering Margaret and his mother's disagreements and spats in the past. "You will tell me if she becomes too much?" John asked, taking Margaret's hand in his own.

"Aye," Margaret replied, thinking that she would not disturb his recovery for the world.

Hannah Thornton headed immediately to the front room, informing Edward along the way that she would meet with Molly and him at once.

Edward nodded, wishing that the new mistress would be privy to this meeting, as well; however, he knew his place and fetched Molly as he was bid.

Once the remaining servants gathered before her, Hannah nodded firmly in greeting and began. "I would have an account of the household's running in my absence," Hannah stated. She remained silent for most of the exchange, prodding Edward or Molly only when they did not present her with enough detail to determine what exactly her new daughter-in-law had been up to since Hannah's absence in the home. "Thank you," she declared at the end, "You may go now." She sat, surprisingly idle, as she considered the good, but in her opinion somewhat flawed, schedule that Margaret had put into place. Now that Hannah had returned, all would be made right. She had only to inform Margaret of the necessary changes.

Margaret longed to take dinner with her husband, but knew she would be expected to dine with Mrs. Thornton. She dressed carefully, as she had noticed Mrs. Thornton's eye upon her somewhat disheveled appearance. Of course, she never could quite coax her hair into the same pretty curls that Julia and Samantha made look so simple. At the thought of the two maids, Margaret recited a little prayer for the health of their families. Then, nodded confidently at her reflection, Margaret rose.

"You look lovely, as always, dear one," John assured her. He kissed her when she came near. "Now go, enjoy your meal."

"I do so hate to leave you," Margaret breathed, truthfully, although admitting to herself that she also hated to join Mrs. Thornton. _That is unfair_, Margaret chided herself, _she has done nothing since returning that warrants such reaction_. She could not help but add, _It is not so long since she has returned._

Margaret regretfully left her husband and walked down to the dining room, her fingers wandering over the folds of her skirt as though courage could be found there. Out of habit, she counted her steps, measuring over the distance that she desired to increase instead of erase. One, two…eighteen, nineteen. She found herself before the dining room door. Heaving a sigh, Margaret pressed a hand to the cool wood door and pushed it open.

Hannah shifted in her seat, trying to be subtle about the impatient movement before Edward. After the long journey, Hannah's hunger was a physical discomfort and she had scarcely been able to wait for the dinner hour before partaking in a meal; however, many years of poverty had driven Hannah to a strict practice of taking only three meals with the societal necessity of tea in the afternoon. Even the traveling could not sway her from her routine. Thus, Margaret's slow arrival served, more than usual, to frustrate her punctual mother-in-law.

"How good of you to join me," Hannah managed, when Margaret finally entered.

"I hope you have not been waiting long," Margaret returned, flushing at her mother-in-law's tone and smoothing a hand over her grey cotton dress to remove the wrinkles created by the movement of her anxious hands.

Hannah nodded, accepting Margaret's sentiment without giving a polite falsehood in answer. Once Margaret sat, Hannah offered a quick prayer and Edward served the soup course.

Margaret relaxed as the meal progressed in blessed silence. Sweet relief washed over her at having gotten away with only the first tense exchange. Perhaps their absence from one another's company and created a veil over the rift in their relationship, if it had not quite bridged the gap in the mutual misunderstanding.

Hannah settled back, satisfied at last. Now that her hunger had been satiated, Hannah turned to her daughter-in-law. "I have spoken to the servants about the running of the household in my absence," Hannah stated.

Margaret met Mrs. Thornton's gaze with shock and fought the urge to glare at Edward. She felt thrust back to her school years and the hurt and anger experienced at finding her secreting notes to her cousin had been tattled to the teacher. Margaret attempted to offer an "oh?" but could not force any noise beyond the white-hot outrage growing in her chest.

Edward shrank back into his corner, longing to flee the space, which quickly filled with the familiar tension. Normally, the gossip in him would have overcome the awkwardness and flourished in the private exchange, but Edward felt shame for his part in this sabotage against the new mistress. He could barely manage to gather the empty plates from their third course and steadily walk from the room. Once in the hall, he sighed heavily. "What have I done?" he wondered aloud, then reminded himself that Mrs. Hannah Thornton had demanded the exchange.

"Absent the normal issues," Hannah began, "I noted several failures."

_Naturally_, Margaret thought.

"First," Hannah explained, "You have fallen dreadfully behind on the sewing. A girl might be excused for sitting idle at times, but a married woman must never be at rest. In that same vein, our unusual circumstances make it more important than usual for you to not fall back to your natural laziness. Without Agnes, Samantha, or Julia, we are placing far too much of a work load on Molly and Edward. As such, we must find ways to decrease their burden. We will cease in providing baskets to the mill workers."

Margaret made a small noise of protest, but her mother-in-law paid her no heed.

"And finally," Hannah continued, "My son lies upon dirty sheets. When with fever or recovering from such, a person's sheets should be changed daily. It is a wonder that he survived your negligence!" Hannah pressed her lips together, determined not to insult her daughter-in-law but only to ensure that these changes be carried out for the good of the household.

Margaret did not even know where to begin. She flushed in shame at Mrs. Thornton's final assault, knowing herself ignorant to such routine actions; yet, her stubbornness was not so easily overcome. "If I were to take full responsibility for the creation and distribution of the baskets for the sick, would you take offense?" she finally asked.

"Nay," Hannah answered. "Indeed, I would think it good to see you making some effort to thwart your general disinterest in your husband's house and its running." Hannah nodded, pleased, and rose to attend to some of that neglected sewing.

Margaret found herself in tears as her mother-in-law quit the room, not an unusual reaction but, her emotion was not one of frustration or anger. Instead, Margaret thought she might be crushed by the weight of her own failures. Of course she should have changed John's sheets, kept up with the sewing, and recognized the stress that her own charitable act had placed on the servants and on her husband. Why, each of the things Mrs. Thornton pointed out emphasized Margaret's inability to properly perform her duties as a wife. Bringing herself under control, Margaret breathed calmly until her sniffling stopped, wiped her eyes on a sleeve, and strode forth, determined to progress. That day it did not seem too much, but then most of the work had already been completed.

The next morning Hannah rose, dressed, and headed to breakfast but was halted upon the sight of Margaret quitting the master bedroom. "Margaret!" Hannah snapped, "Where did you sleep?"

Blushing, Margaret replied, "With my husband."

"Is he likely to rest as he needs with you beside him?"

Margaret did not answer. Her mind, however, considered the question. She had woken several times in the night to the sensation of her husband gathering her to him, kissing her fingertips, and smoothing back a curl of her hair. _Perhaps_, she realized with a start, _he could not sleep because I disturbed him_. Knowing John would deny it, Margaret decided that until her husband was well, she would remain absent from his bed.

After breakfasting, Margaret gathered the baskets dropped off by the workers, carrying them by fours up the steps and into the house. Despite her load being empty, Margaret had to stop and catch her breath after several trips up and down the stairs. Then, she set to making the meals to fill the baskets again.

Molly fluttered about at the strangeness of having the mistress at work making bread in her kitchen. "It isna' right! It isna' right!" she muttered. Finally, watching Mrs. Margaret Thornton struggling to lift the heavy stone mixing bowl from a shelf, Molly put her foot down. "Step aside, mistress," she ordered, and the surprised Margaret obeyed. "I willna' tell you that you canna' work in th' kitchen. T'is the kitchen in your house o'course, but I willna' stand here idle watchin' ya bake, for I be o'course the cook in your house."

Margaret tried to protest, but in the end gratefully allowed Molly to help her through the unfamiliar task. Indeed, merely half of the task of mixing and kneading the necessary amount of bread left Margaret's arm and back muscles aching.

"Go on with ya now," Molly commanded when the dough had been set to rise. "I must be makin' your dinner."

Margaret longed to escape to the library and put her feet up. Instead, she trudged up the stairs to where her husband lay.

"Hello, darling," John greeted her, surprised that he had not seen his wife, who had since his illness been a constant companion. Perhaps this stood as proof of her belief in his recovery.

Margaret went and kissed her husband, careful to keep from moaning at the movement of her aching back. "I am come to change your sheets," she explained. "Do you feel strong enough to move to the chair for a minute or shall I call Edward to assist you?"

"It is no trouble," John assured her, making his way from bed to chair.

Margaret tugged the sheets free of the bed and then began to replace the new ones. She could not believe how physically draining this one day had been, and it was barely mid-day. Dropping a quick kiss on her husband's forehead, Margaret hurriedly readied herself and walked down to dinner.

Following the meal, Margaret and Molly baked the bread and then Margaret readied the baskets as Molly began supper preparations. Finally, Margaret carried the filled baskets two at a time from the kitchen out the front and down the steps to the yard.

"Do you need help with those, mistress?" Edward offered. Margaret smiled and would have answered in the affirmative, but just then John called from the open master bedroom door for Edward to help prepare a bath for him. "Coming, sir," Edward replied immediately, with an apologetic smile to the mistress.

Thus, Margaret carried the baskets alone. The heavy exercise so soon after her meal caused Margaret to vomit over the edge of the porch after her fifth or sixth trip, yet she had no choice but to wipe her mouth and continue. She finished just as the mill whistle blew and watched from the top of the steps as the workers filed out of the mill and gathered the baskets, tipping their hats at her and calling up thanks as they left.

It truly was eye opening to know what physical labors her "simple" act of charity had forced upon Molly, Edward, and John. It was a wonder that John had lasted eight days before his fever worsened with the workload forced upon him by his wife! Margaret felt again a rush of shame and unworthiness at the thought of her selfish actions. She blinked back the tears that rushed into her eyes and went to prepare for supper.

"You seem tired," John noticed, as Margaret changed.

"It is nothing," Margaret was quick to assure him. She smoothed his hair, kissed him, and headed down to supper.

Hannah noted Margaret's silence during both dinner and supper, thinking it merely sullenness at Hannah's insistence that Margaret take on more work in the house. She kept her own silence, waiting out her daughter-in-law's poor attitude.

After supper, Margaret could scarcely force herself to lift her legs high enough to climb the stairs. "Good night," she called in to John.

"Are you not coming to bed?" John asked.

"I thought to sleep elsewhere this night," Margaret responded, vaguely, and found her way to the lavender bedroom that she had nevermore thought to occupy. Falling into bed, she was asleep in moments, still fully clothed.

John did not understand his wife's absence from his bed, but wondered if his restlessness at remaining abed had kept her awake the previous night. She did appear tired and John could only imagine what his mother might have said to worry his wife, but, since Margaret denied that anything was wrong, John could only hope that this empty spot beside him was a one-time occurrence.


	17. Chapter 17

~Chapter 17~

Hannah was floored. When Margaret suggested that she take over the preparation of the food baskets, Hannah had never imagined that one person – especially her delicate daughter-in-law – could handle the daily strain of the task on top of household chores. Yet, Margaret pushed on day by day. Admittedly, Hannah noticed that Margaret seemed tired and sought her bed early each evening, but Hannah would never discourage such spirit; she sat back and watched in silence.

Five nights had passed by John's count and still his wife remained absent from their bed. John did not know what to make of it. He waited impatiently in his armchair, a book in hand but far from holding his attention, for his wife that he might have an answer from her.

Margaret knew that she had never before been this weary. Her head throbbed. Her bones and muscles ached. Even her skin protested this brutal schedule. And twice this day her hands had spasmed and she dropped the full baskets she held down the front stair. Perhaps worst of all, unseasonably cold weather had settled over Milton and Margaret could not get warm. Thus, when she entered the master bedroom just after supper, Margaret was appalled to find her husband out of bed with not so much as a wrap for warmth. "John," she scolded, gathering an afghan from the blanket chest at the foot of the bed, "Have you no care for your health? You are sure to take a chill."

"Margaret," John returned in confusion, "The day is quite warm." He took her hand to stop her from tucking the blanket around him and felt immediately the fevered warmth of her skin. "You are ill!" he exclaimed, terror sweeping through him. How could he have been so stupid as to return home to his wife when carrying the fever? He had known the danger and ignored it at the expense of his wife's health. John shook his head as though to clear the thoughts; they would do Margaret no good. At this moment, his job was to see his wife nursed through this illness, not to waste time blaming himself for actions already past. "Come," he commanded, and led Margaret by the hand that he still held across the room to their bed.

Surprised, Margaret did as she was bid. She stood quietly by the bed as John unfastened her dress and undergarments and then fetched a nightgown for her. At any other time, Margaret would have shivered deliciously at her husband's touch, but just now she could scarcely remain standing from exhaustion. So, once clothed in the simple white garment, she climbed gratefully under the navy coverlet and lay still as John tucked it in around her.

"Sleep," John urged, and left to find his mother.

Mrs. Thornton looked up from her sewing, expecting to see her daughter-in-law but instead found her son. "John," she scolded, "You should not have walked down the stairs unattended. Where is Margaret?"

"Hopefully asleep," John responded.

"Where?" Hannah returned.

"The master bedroom," John replied, not understanding why his mother needed to know. "Now mother-"

"That girl!" Hannah fumed, setting her needlework aside more emphatically than the action required. "I told her that staying in your room would disturb your rest and she still cares so little for me that she ignores my request!"

So, Margaret's absence from his bed had come at his mother's insistence; John ran a hand through his hair in frustration. He wondered how he had not considered that possibility. "Mother," he stated more loudly, folding his arms across his chest and letting the word hang in the air for a moment before continuing, "Margaret is ill. She has caught my fever. She is to remain in our bed and is to be disturbed for naught save meals. I am well. I have humored your nursemaid tendencies long enough. I will be making my own decisions as to my health from this point forward. Is this clear?"

Hannah had let her mouth hang open in surprise at her son's tone and words, but closed it with an audible clacking of teeth once she realized her expression. "Yes," she said and John quit the room to find Molly and Edward.

After speaking to the staff about the mistress' illness and her need for rest, John returned to his bedroom and found his Margaret sound asleep. She seemed so small and frail in the large bed, her flushed face contrasting sharply with the white pillow on which she lay. A hand to her forehead confirmed what that flush had already displayed, the fever still burned. Once he had changed for the night, John climbed into the bed beside his wife and gathered her close, finding no comfort in the action which he had so longed for these past five nights. His arms could not keep her safe. "Be well, Margaret," he begged, the words a desperate prayer, "Be well, my love."

The next morning, Margaret woke in her husband's arms. "Good morning," he offered, kissing her forehead, her eyelids, each flushed cheek, and then finding her lips.

She yawned, stretching and carefully erasing any signs of pain from her face as every muscle protested the movement. "You seem in a fine mood this day, husband," Margaret declared.

"Aye," John affirmed, "Your fever is lower and I am off to the mill to learn of our situation since my absence." Margaret's eyes widened at the last statement, so John hurriedly continued, "I will go only for some short hours, my love."

"Do not overstress yourself," Margaret warned and raised her head for the farewell kiss that John planted on her lips. She allowed her eyelids to slip closed as John moved about the room, drifting in and out of dreams. Once he quit the room after a final kiss, however, Margaret forced herself into a seated position. The workers' food baskets would not make themselves in her absence. She dressed slowly, pausing several times when merely the act of standing proved too difficult. Finally, Margaret made her way towards the stairs. She stood for a dizzy minute looking down what seemed an insurmountable distance and then began to carefully make her way down.

John chuckled to himself as he walked back up the steps to his house. He had left his lunch bag on the dining room table and now had the task of retrieving it, since his wife would not be doing so. Margaret. John sobered a bit at the thought. He would not truly breathe easy until she was completely well. Thank God that he had discovered her illness or she might have overworked herself and become even worse. He opened the front door and stepped into the hall. When his eyes adjusted from the bright light outside to the dim interior, he spotted Margaret frozen halfway down the stairs. "What are you doing out of bed?" he asked.

Margaret jerked her head up at her husband's voice. The movement caused the world to spin before her and she lost focus on remaining upright.

John watched in horror as his wife collapsed and tumbled down the stairs, landing in a crumpled heap at the bottom. He reached her in three strides, gathered her limp body into his arms, and yelled, "Mother!"

Hannah ran into the hall, "What is it? What has happened?"

"It is Margaret," John choked out, "She fell. Oh God. Fetch Molly and come to the master bedroom."

Hannah picked up her skirts and ran for the kitchen.

John tenderly lifted his wife and made his way back up the stairs and into their bedroom, placing her carefully onto the bed. Margaret's dark eyes fluttered and slowly opened.

Margaret regained consciousness, disconcerted for a moment at her changed location. "What happened?" she asked in confusion.

"You fell on the stairs," John explained, his brow furrowed in concern and his heart still beating wildly. "Can you move all of your fingers and toes? Does anything hurt?"

Margaret wiggled her appendages and then struggled to sit up, assuring her husband, "I am no more than bruised."

John stopped her rising with a hand. "Lay still, Margaret. Mother and Molly will soon be up to look you over."

"I do not require any doctoring," Margaret protested, coloring at the thought of an examination led by Mrs. Thornton.

"I only wish a true doctor could be had," John declared, "For if you do not require one, I do. My heart may never beat properly again. Whatever possessed you to come downstairs?"

Reminded of her duty, Margaret shot up into a seated position. "The food baskets! I must prepare food for the mill workers."

Walking into the master bedroom with Molly at her heels, Hannah could not believe her daughter-in-law's pigheadedness. "You will do no such thing," Hannah snapped. "Go now, John, and we will tend to her."

"I will be just outside," John assured his wife, who gave him a pleading look.

Hannah had Margaret stand with Molly's help and stripped her down to her undergarments. Thus attired, Margaret was subjected to a thorough exam that mostly consisted of Hannah and Molly poking and prodding at her to ensure that she had not broken anything. When they were finally satisfied that Margaret had indeed only bruised herself in the fall, Margaret was dressed in a nightgown and returned to the bed. Her worn out body took advantage of her prostrate position and pulled her quickly into sleep.

"Foolish girl, how could you act so thoughtlessly?" Hannah clucked as she fussed over the blankets. She paused and then somewhat grudgingly added, "You possess more strength and determination than I credit you with."

Just reaching unconsciousness as her mother-in-law spoke, Margaret did not hear her words of praise.

Hannah quit the master bedroom, closing the door behind her quietly, and turned to find John waiting anxiously. "She did not do herself any serious harm," Hannah assured him, placing her hand on his arm. Letting go of the breath that he held with a whoosh, John embraced his mother wordlessly and went to his wife. Hannah watched through the open doorway as her son pulled his chair to the bedside and sat watching Margaret sleep. She nodded, feeling for the first time acceptance of her diminished role in John's life; his wife would now come before his mother in his thoughts and actions. It should be so.

John stayed there watching over his wife for hours. When she woke, he called for a tray and watched over her as she consumed every morsel. _She will be well_, he promised himself. And she seemed to be for two days, as he patiently nursed her, fitting in work at the mill when she slept. On the third day, he woke in the early pre-dawn hours when he was accustomed to rising and felt her burning skin against his own. The fever had worsened and her teeth chattered terribly when he placed a wet cloth on her forehead. Even more frighteningly, she begged for Dixon to remove it. John summoned Edward to wake his mother and to fetch Molly; he paced while he waited for help to arrive.

They tried bleeding her, spooning herbal remedies and even Molly's concoction into Margaret. She did not respond to treatment. Instead, the fever grew higher and her lips dried and cracked and she continued to speak to absent and dead family and friends. John Thornton would not leave her side.

"You are needed at the mill," Hannah pleaded multiple times, thinking that he needed the mill more than it needed him. She feared what the loss of Margaret would do to her son. "I will care for her," Hannah bargained.

"Damn the mill!" was John's response.

In private moments at his wife's bedside, John begged her to stay. He professed his love a thousand times and held her limp form in his arms, stroking her chestnut brown hair. At times she was agitated and John would speak to her soothingly. He hated to see her so. Yet, when she seemed more quiet, lay more still, appeared closer to death, he would grow desperate and shake her roughly. "Damn it, Margaret!" he raged in such times, "Fight for us! For what we are! For what we could be!" Still, she did not know him.

Finally, though, the fever weakened and left her. After finding his wife resting peacefully with no unnatural blush or heat to her face, John dragged his mother into the room to confirm this. "She is out of danger," Hannah pronounced. John sagged visibly in relief, finding that exhaustion slipped easily into the place of anxiousness. "Sleep, John," his worried mother commanded, "I will stay with her." John rose, kissed his wife's forehead, reveling in its temperature, and then squeezed his mother's hand in thanks as he quit the room. He fell atop the coverlet in the guest room beside the master bedroom and slept soundly for eleven hours.

Thus, when Margaret managed to lift her heavy eyelids, shocked by her own weakness, she found Mrs. Hannah Thornton at her bedside. Margaret attempted to feign sleep, but Hannah had seen her daughter-in-law's eyes struggle open.

"You've frightened my boy near to death with this illness," Hannah started.

Margaret kept her eyes closed, unable to flee in any other way from the cruelty that she knew would follow.

"I must say," Hannah continued. "I did fear that you would leave us and that some of my last words to you would have been spoken in rebuke."

"Last words?" Margaret burst out, rising with considerable difficulty into a seated position, "Every word you have spoken to me has been spoken in rebuke or anger. You make me an unwanted guest and I cannot remove myself." She collapsed back onto the pillows, her little strength spent and her entire body trembling from the effort.

"You should not upset yourself," Hannah cautioned, fearful of Margaret relapsing. "I will go now." Margaret tried to turn her back on her mother-in-law but was too weary and instead settled on turning her face away.

When John woke, he immediately went to his wife and found his mother seated in a chair outside the door. "Mother," he asked, "Why are you not in with Margaret?"

"She was agitated," Hannah explained, "I felt it best for her to be calm."

John nodded curtly and entered the room. Margaret lay so still as quiet that John pressed a hand anxiously to her forehead to assure himself that the fever had not returned. He sat with his wife for four hours but when she did not so much as stir, he called Hannah to sit with her while he worked on some dreadfully neglected account books.

At the mill, John found Williams overwhelmed by the business of running the mill in his absence and exhausted by his efforts. John resolved to return to his normal working hours now that Margaret had recovered so as to avoid losing his man to either illness or exhaustion. When he returned from the mill that night, Margaret still slept. She had woken once briefly but pretended sleep at the sight of Mrs. Thornton again at her bedside and Hannah had allowed it.

Over the next two weeks, Margaret slowly grew stronger, fighting her limits and pushing to recover and escape that room and Mrs. Thornton's almost constant company. Somehow, John never managed to see Margaret during waking hours, yet he delighted in his mother's reports of progress. He sat beside his wife at night and whispered words of love when the sight of her loveliness and most importantly her improved health did not overwhelm him with emotion.

One morning, waking to find Mrs. Thornton absent, Margaret entreated Molly, who came with a breakfast tray, to draw her a bath. Margaret was still unsteady on her feet and unable to remain out of bed for more than a few minutes, but she longed for that soapy clean feeling and an opportunity to untangle her matted hair. Besides, she had felt a strange cramp in her stomach upon waking and hoped that the warm water would soothe it. She stood as Molly pulled the nightgown over her head and then dropped back to the bed panting.

"Are ya' all right, mistress?" Molly asked, "Sure and the master will have m'head when he hears that I 'llowed this."

"I am fine and the master need not hear of this," Margaret responded, unwilling to turn back now that the temptation of the hot bath lay before her. _It is only four, at most five, steps away_, she informed her unsteady legs. One, two, three, four, five. She hurried across the distance, with Molly's arm for balance, and carefully lowered herself into the blissful water. It was heaven.

Before long, however, Margaret had to acknowledge her mistake. She lifted trembling limbs for Molly to scrub, sometimes so weak that she had to lower the arm or leg several times before it was clean, despite Molly's quick hands. After every inch of her body had been scrubbed and her hair thoroughly washed and rinsed, Margaret lounged in the cooling water, unwilling to face the reality that she would never make the trip from tub to bed. Why, she was not certain that she could even stand long enough to be dried. _I am stronger than I know_, Margaret assured herself and then rose. "Dry me quickly," she instructed Molly.

Molly hurried to comply, thinking how suddenly pale the mistress looked.

Despite Molly's best efforts, Margaret's legs trembled and then a twist of sharp pain in her stomach caused them to fail her. She landed on her knees still inside the copper tub and gripped the edge with white fingers to stop from crying out at the pain.

Molly shrieked, her dark eyes wide in fear, and then cried, "I must go for the master!"

"No!" Margaret demanded, "Fetch Mrs. Thornton." Better Mrs. Thornton than John see her in pain. Mrs. Thornton would have words with her over this in any account; it may as well be now.

"Mrs. Thornton is from the house," Molly responded.

Margaret let out a loud breath. "Then give me a towel and go for the master," she finally stated, resigned.

John sat in his office going over the numbers and worrying that he would lose yet another customer due to his decreased work force. He had always possessed a head for numbers, but no one could balance the books of Marlboro Mills in their present state. Behind him, he heard footsteps heavy on the stairs and then the door opening violently behind him. "What is it?" John asked, sure that Williams came to report yet another catastrophe, as seemed routine of late.

"Please, sir," Molly's voice entreated. John turned at the sound and saw the terror in her face as she continued. "It's the mistress."

John's throat twisted and he shoved away his accounts and rose in haste. "Where?" he growled.

"The bedroom," Molly replied, "she -"

But he was gone, rushing past her down the stairs and crossing the yard in six steps before breaking into a run as he reached the house. John entered the bedroom still in a sprint, freezing at the sight of Margaret trembling in fatigue, pain, and chill, trying modestly to cover herself while still kneeling in the tub.

"What are you doing?" he burst, "You are sure to become ill from this long exposure." He scooped her up in his arms, mindless of his suit, which became drenched in the process. Instead of depositing her on the bed as Margaret had hoped, John carried her to a chair beside the fireplace, built up the fire, and moved her chair still closer to warm her.

Margaret sat, trying to appreciate the heat and to ignore the pain in her core that throbbed its way to the center of her attention. She smiled when upon opening her eyes she found her husband kneeling by her side and watching her face with his brow furrowed with worry.

"I had started to think you did not exist," she offered, comforted by his presence.

"Nay," John returned, "It is I who wondered after all these days if a kiss was needed to wake the sleeping beauty."

Margaret lowered her eyes and bit her lip, pretending shyness at her husband's attention. She hoped to distract him from her increasing pain.

"You are mostly dry, my love," John noticed. "Shall I help you into bed?"

"Aye," Margaret answered.

John brought a nightgown and began to slip it over his wife's arms and head. He caught his breath at the sight of her nakedness as the towel fell away, but allowed the cloth in his hands to cover her. With careful movements, he freed her damp hair from the collar, running his fingers through the thick locks. His pulse pounded in his ears. It had been quite some time. John lifted his wife into his arms and stopped. A red stain darkened the portion of the white towel on which Margaret had been seated.

"You are bleeding!"

Margaret looked down and spotted the towel. "It is nothing," she assured him. "It must be my monthly time."


	18. Chapter 18

~Chapter 18~

Mary finally regained consciousness after a week of fever and two days of sleep following it. She woke to find her family reduced, but all safe from fever. Cora threw herself onto Mary, burying her head against Mary's stomach.

"Seamus?" Mary croaked at Johnny, her voice thick as though from lack of use.

He shook his head grimly. So he had died, too.

"Pa?" Mary asked, suddenly terrified by what she had at first considered her father's normal absence during the day.

Johnny grinned, "At t'mill n'right as rain. He surely will be glad t'see ya' awake."

Reassured, Mary stroked a hand over Cora's silky curls, finding them tangled and oily after not having been cared for in weeks.

"Are ya' needin' anythin'?" Johnny asked, eager to provide any services required of him, so relieved was he at her recovery.

"A brush," Mary answered.

Johnny rushed across the room and back with the object that she had requested.

Once the brush lay in her hands, Mary focused all her energy on Cora, coaxing the little girl into a seated position and beginning the laborious task of untangling her hair. "Whatcha been doin', Cora?" Mary asked the unusually quiet girl.

"She willna' answer ya'," Johnny explained, taking one of Cora's little hands in his own. "She hasna' said a word since she woke." He hurriedly added, "She isna' dumb. Pa says t'is 'cause she woke to find t'others gone, for she cries out good'n loud when asleep."

Cora did not react as though she had heard any of the exchange between the two, sitting still before Mary.

"M'poor baby," Mary cooed, setting the brush aside and gathering Cora close in her arms. "Y've lost so much, havena' ya'?" Cora snuggled closer but said nothing. "We be givin' ya' some time t'recover, shallna' we?" Mary decided.

The bleeding grew worse. Margaret had to admit now that it could not be her monthly time, not only because it had arrived off schedule but also because the blood that stained her undergarments was living blood, fresh and bright. Still, she had no one in whom to confide. There was no doctor to be had, her husband would only worry and she had already caused him to worry far too much, and Mrs. Thornton, who might have some knowledge of the cause, was not the type in whom one, especially Margaret, could confide.

Thus, for two days, Margaret forced herself to act as though recovered and to dispose of the evidence of her infirmity so as to avoid discovery. She felt often dizzy and weak but played it off as a result of her recent recovery.

John watched with cautious relief as his wife continued improving daily. She still seemed too pale and thin for his liking, but brushed aside his concern whenever he revealed it through word or action and insisted that he not remain at home in order to watch over her.

"You are staring at me again," Margaret stated, looking up from brushing her hair, her exhaustion and fear causing her to use a slightly exasperated tone with her husband. Both prepared for the day in the master bedroom.

"It is your beauty that ensnares me every time," John was quick to assure her, halting in the tying of his cravat in order to kiss her brow. "Are you sure you would not rather sleep a little longer?"

"John." Margaret did not bother trying to suppress her annoyance at his words. She preferred to rise with her husband rather than remain abed alone. After all, she would merely lie there worrying over her symptoms.

John sighed, "I am sorry, dearest." He pulled on his coat and then glanced again to his wife. She still wore her nightgown. "Should I wait?" he asked.

"Nay," Margaret replied. She could not change before him. So John kissed her again and headed down to breakfast.

Once alone, Margaret hurriedly pulled off her nightdress and examined the wad of cloth from her undergarments. It was soaked in blood. Margaret knelt to pull another length from the chest of drawers that she had claimed as her own. She stood and gasped as a sharp pain tore through her abdomen. Her eyes shot to the door, relief flooding through her to find it still firmly closed, a barrier of protection. _I am no better than my husband_, Margaret realized with a start, _I berated him for hiding his illness from me, and here I stand doing the same. I will tell him now_. She dressed quickly in a plain grey dress, trying to ignore the stabbing pain, and walked down the stairs to the dining room.

"John," she called as she entered.

Edward stepped forward, "He has already left for the mill. Would you like me to relay a message to him?"

"I –" Margaret winced at a particularly strong pain.

"Mistress?" Edward asked at her expression.

Margaret felt with embarrassment a rush of warmth running down the inside of her legs. The padding had not been enough. "It is nothing," she assured Edward and stepped into the hall.

Following her, Edward frowned as he noticed a footprint on the typically immaculate hall carpeting. Was that – blood? His eyes followed the trail of footprints to where Margaret stood at the foot of the stairs.

"Mistress!" he called again. Margaret turned and felt another rush of warmth. She collapsed into darkness.

Edward gathered the mistress into his arms, carrying her up the stairs and yelling for help, feeling with alarm a warm wetness soaking through her skirts.

Hannah ran out of her bedroom still in her nightclothes at the commotion. "What is the meaning –" She stopped at the sight of Edward carrying her daughter-in-law, whose face was pale as fresh paper but whose skirts grew dark with blood. She wordlessly followed Edward into the master bedroom. "Fetch my son," she ordered as soon as Edward placed Margaret on the bed.

Hannah leaned over her daughter-in-law. She held Margaret's chin in one hand and slapped at her cheek with the other, gently at first but growing more firm with every slap. "Margaret," she demanded after each one, "Wake up. Look at me."

John was again interrupted at his desk with a swinging door and a cry of, "Please sir, it's the mistress." This time, though, when he spun in his chair he saw Edward standing with arms outstretched in petition, his hands red with Margaret's blood.

"Oh, God, no," John begged. He pushed past Edward and ran to his wife.

Margaret regained consciousness to find her mother-in-law's face inches from her own. "Good, Margaret," Hannah soothed. "Talk to me. What happened?"

"How –" Margaret asked, tears springing to her dark eyes, "How do you know when you lose a child?"

John gained the master bedroom in time to hear his wife's question. "No!" he cried.

To her credit, Hannah did not turn for an instant to address her son's pain. She ran a hand over Margaret's brow. "The pain is here?" She placed a gentle hand to Margaret's stomach. Margaret nodded. "And you bleed similar to your monthlies but heavier?" Another nod. "Poor girl, I do believe you have lost a child, but you are young." As Molly entered the room, Hannah added, "Here. Molly will stay with you for a minute and then I will return and together we can get you out of those soiled garments."

Hannah gave Margaret's hand a squeeze and quit the room, taking her son's arm and leading him from the room, closing the door behind them. "John," she stated, and then again at his blank expression, "John!"

Startled out of his sorrowful thoughts, John responded, "Yes, mother."

Hannah took her son by the arms, "I did not want to frighten Margaret, but something is not right. Her bleeding is far too heavy. You must fetch a doctor."

Shocked and overcome by fear, John stated, "There are no doctors in Milton."

"Then you must go beyond Milton and convince a doctor to return with you," Hannah returned. "And hurry, John."

Choked up with terror, John silently entered the bedroom and kissed his wife, running his fingers over her hair and cheek. "I must go," he explained, "I will be back soon, dearest." _God_, he swore silently, _I will never forgive you if you take her from me_.

While her son bade farewell to his wife, Hannah ordered the readying of a horse. She then returned to the bedroom, kissing her son goodbye, and send Molly to heat water with which to clean Margaret. Finally, she turned to Margaret. "Let us get you out of those skirts," she decided.

Margaret could scarcely believe that her mother-in-law was the woman before her. This Hannah Thornton chatted comfortingly at Margaret as she carefully removed each garment. Margaret, for her part, kept her lips pressed tightly to contain the soundtrack of her pain and sorrow. _It is my fault_, her mind and heart declared as one, _I have caused the death of my child through my stubbornness and ignorance_. Silent tears slipped one at a time down her cheeks to soak the pillow.

John rode hard for Doctor White's home just outside of Milton. He prayed with every hoof beat that the good doctor had not taken it upon himself to further remove his family from the city. He reached the house shortly after the noon hour and interrupted the family at their mid-day meal. He was allowed into the house only after assuring the manservant who answered that he and all his household were free of fever.

"Why, Mr. Thornton," Dr. White cried, after John was announced and entered the dining room. "What brings you to my doorstep? I do hope it is nothing serious."

"I am afraid it is," John said, thinking how aptly the phrase fit this situation. He was very afraid that it was serious. "My wife requires your attention."

"James, prepare the carriage," White commanded, then turned to John and asked, "What ails the good woman?"

John looked significantly at the five children who sat at table, the youngest of whom whistled through the gap created by a missing front tooth until his mother's disapproving glare and older sister's pinch halted the exercise.

White nodded in understanding, "We can discuss it on the road." He kissed his wife and took the time to embrace each child, laughing aloud at the acrobatics that the youngest attempted in order to avoid being captured in his father's arms. Ruffling the same boy's hair, White stated, "God bless and keep you all." He then led John back out of the front door and into a waiting carriage, explaining, "We will return your horse when it is rested."

John nodded in consent and they were off.

Hannah sat beside her sleeping daughter-in-law, rubbing the back of Margaret's hand with her thumb. Her thoughts, however, were far from that bedside. In between the arrivals of John and Fanny, Hannah had lost two children in miscarriages, one early and one so late that the doctor had been sure, despite Hannah's certainty to the contrary, that the baby merely came early. It was this dark time that had kept Hannah from hatred of her husband when he had abandoned the family through suicide. She still disdained the weakness of his act, but she understood the temptation of the escape from the seeming permanence of despair. Margaret would not succumb to such depths of emotion, Hannah was sure. The girl had proven herself admirably able to overcome many losses in the past year: mother, father, life, home, and – perhaps as permanently – brother. Hannah nodded, with John and herself there to watch over Margaret, this too would be surmounted.

In the kitchen, Edward warmed water over the stove, dipping out increasingly warm water with which to wash his hands. He was sure they would never again be free of the blood of his mistress. His hands shook and he spilled water from the ladle onto the floor. He selected a clean towel and bent to dry the puddle that he had created. The sound of hooves and wheels turning over gravel announced the arrival of a carriage. Edward straightened, dried his hands, and walked to the front door just in time to open it for the master and the doctor.

The combination of Mrs. Thornton releasing her hand, the door opening, and voices, woke Margaret, who was surprised that she had fallen asleep. By the time she was fully awake, John had gone and Mrs. Thornton closed the door behind him. Margaret submitted to the doctor's examination, flushing in embarrassment at this invasion of her privacy. She found she was grateful for Mrs. Thornton's presence, clinging to the hand that was offered and borrowing strength from the steady pressure that her mother-in-law placed on her hand.

"You will be fine," Dr. White assured Margaret upon completion of his exam. "Stay in bed for two days, take it easy for a week after that, and you will make a full recovery." He gave a slight bow to Margaret, "Mrs. Thornton." Then he turned to Hannah, "Mrs. Thornton." He left the room.

"How is she?" John anxiously asked.

Dr. White responded, "Besides merely miscarrying, she tore something inside, perhaps from the fall that you spoke of. Currently, the bleeding has stopped, but you must keep her as still as possible for two days and have her rest often for the week after that. Depending on the damage inside, she may never bear children."

His words were a knife to John's heart. Margaret was still in danger. They might never have a child together. He pushed aside the latter to be dealt with at a time when the former was not so pressing.

Hannah patted Margaret's hand comfortingly, "See, there, everything will be fine. I will bring you up some tea." She walked over to the door and slipped out.

As Mrs. Thornton left, Margaret heard a few of the doctor's words to her husband: "-never bear children."

John saw the doctor out, thanking him profusely, and then hurried back to his wife. Entering the bedroom, John found Margaret sobbing violently. Rushing to her side, he forced himself to wipe away her tears rather than enveloping her in his arms as he longed to do. "Come, now," he tutted. "The doctor says you shall be fine."

"Did he say nothing further in the hall?" Margaret wanted to know.

John smiled, "I do not know what he said in here." After Margaret told him, John simply nodded. "Dr. White said much the same to me." There was no need to frighten Margaret further than she already had been.

_Why is he lying?_ Margaret cried internally. _Why does he not tell me that I have ruined our chance to have children? Why does he not blame me? I blame myself._

Margaret refused dinner and ate little more than toast for supper. John wanted to force her to eat more, but his mother had silenced his plan with a simple, "She is mourning. Give her time." So instead he kissed his wife good night and headed for the guest room, far too worried about causing his wife pain or restarting her bleeding to spend the night in their bed.

He should have told Margaret. She lay awake for hours, thinking herself justified in believing that John did blame her and could not even bear the thought of lying beside her.

Over the next few days, despite the best efforts of John, Hannah, and Edward, Margaret slipped into what her husband called a "mood." Margaret felt it was an abyss. For a few seconds or even minutes each day, she would feel happiness or at least contentment, like glimpsing sunlight. But, the rest of the time, a heavy shadow of guilt and sorrow fell like a curtain between her and the world. She did not even bother to fight against it, since in her eyes she deserved such suffering.

John dutifully brought his wife each meal, watching her withdraw and shrink before his eyes. She did not eat. She looked as though she did not sleep, although it seemed the only thing that Margaret did do. After surviving the fever and the miscarriage, Margaret seemed determined to either starve herself to death or live as thought she had died. John did not understand.

Although Hannah did not know the depths of guilt that Margaret took upon herself, Hannah knew her daughter-in-law's sorrow. Still, Hannah had no idea how to break depression's hold on Margaret. Hannah had overcome her own sorrows through inner strength and determination, which she possessed in abundance. She sat with Margaret whenever John was not by her side and tried to talk with her, but Margaret never spoke and usually turned away.

The breaking point came when Margaret again refused to allow John to carry her in to dinner from the library in which she hid, replying that she was not hungry. Looking into Margaret's thinning face and empty expression, John saw the certainty of death for his young wife and lost hold of his emotions, anger being the first to escape and easiest to express, despite fear's place as the strongest of his feelings.

"You must be hungry," he exclaimed, "for you have not eaten properly in days."

"I am not hungry," Margaret repeated, untouched by his outburst.

"Do not lie to me, Margaret," John snapped.

Hannah stopped in the doorway, ready to intervene, but hopeful that this exchange might be enough to extract Margaret from her self-indulgent mourning.

John's rub went straight home. "Am I the only liar in this marriage?" Margaret asked, sitting straighter on the lounge.

"What?"

"Dr. White did not tell me that I will not be able to bear children. He told you and, even though I asked, you did not tell me."

"He said you may not be able to."

"You did not tell me," Margaret persisted.

John rubbed the heel of his palm over his eyes. "I wanted you well. I was so afraid –" He corrected himself, "I am so afraid that you are going to die."

"Why do you care?"

John stepped back as though struck. "I love you."

Margaret shook her head, not accepting his answer. "My negligence and ignorance killed our child and most likely our chance to have any in the future."

John sighed, finally understanding, "Darling girl, it is not your fault."

Margaret lay back against a pillow, turning her head away to signal the end of the conversation.

Hannah slipped silently from the doorway and out of the house; she stopped in the mill to enquire something from Mr. Williams and then headed through the streets of Milton, coming to a halt before the home of the Higgins and Boucher family.

A sharp knock brought Mary to the door. "Mrs. Thornton," Mary stated in shock upon answering the summons. "What brings ya' to our 'ome?"

"Good day," Hannah answered. "Mrs. Margaret Thornton requires the presence of yourself and any children that are now at home."

Uncertain what else to do, Mary called Johnny and Cora from the back room and followed Mrs. Thornton on a silent walk to the house at Marlboro Mills.

"Margaret, Margaret, look at me," John begged, dropping to his knees beside the lounge. "Such things happen and although they are tragic, they are no one's fault."

Margaret remained silent.

"You must know how I love you," John pressed, "My life would be over if I ever lost you."

Margaret could scarcely hear her husband over the accusations of her mind. _He is lying because he is kind and good_, it told her. _You do not deserve him_. Margaret nodded in agreement at this thought. She never could.

"I never meant to betray your trust, but you must believe me now when I tell you how entirely I need you." John would have continued, but he heard from down the hall the sound of Edward opening and closing the front door for several someones. Standing, he crossed his arms, placing one hand over his mouth to disguise the strength of his emotions.

Hannah entered the library with Mary Higgins and Johnny and Cora Boucher in tow. All but Hannah stopped just inside the doorway. From her position, Margaret could not see Mary and the children. "Margaret," Hannah stated firmly, "You may not have been able to save your child, but you saved many others."

Margaret said nothing.

Hannah led Johnny over to the lounge. "Here is one." She walked over, picked Cora up, and dumped her unceremoniously on Margaret's lap. "And here is another," she stated, as Cora wrapped her chubby arms around Margaret's neck.

Reminded of her siblings' deaths by Miss Margaret's presence, Cora began to wail. Margaret tried to pull away to check that she had not injured the child, but Cora clung more tightly to her. Mary stepped forward to take the child from Miss Margaret, but Mrs. Hannah Thornton stopped her movement with a hand.

"She misses the others," Johnny explained, his own throat closing at the sound of his sister's crying. "So do I," he managed to say.

Margaret pulled Johnny down beside her on the lounge and wrapped the two children in her arms. "Hush, hush," she soothed. "This is no one's fault," she cooed, echoing her husband's words. "Everything will be all right." As she comforted Cora and Johnny, Margaret, too, began to cry. She felt for the first time that she could forgive herself for her failings. She was still overwhelmed with sorrow, but the aching emptiness was just a little weaker.


	19. Chapter 19

Dear all, thanks for all the love despite my ridiculously long writers block. I had the story basically planned through the last chapter and then NOTHING after, which, as you may have noticed, worked itself out in only a little less than a year and a half. Regardless, I hope you enjoy. I'm really going to try not to disappear again despite the fact that I have only the next chapter in my head and that I really should be writing my own book with characters of my own creation – these ones are Elizabeth Gaskell's.

p.s. Don't hate me too much, I can be counted on for a (mostly) happy ending at the very end.

* * *

><p>No miraculous recovery of mood or strength followed Margaret's revelation, but John and Hannah made certain that Margaret was enveloped in care and love. John noted every small milestone that happened over the following month: the first time she made it through a day with no tears, the first time she smiled at him, the first time she smiled and it reached her dark eyes, the first time she ventured from the house into the recovering community of her own accord – this last had not yet happened. Perhaps soon.<p>

Ever patient, John adapted to his wife's daily and hourly mood. He encouraged his wife to venture outside the mill gates and pressed her to adopt new projects, including the redecoration of the master bedroom. Watching over the mill yard from his office, John nodded in approval at the arrival of the draper and furniture maker. A distraction was just what Margaret required. His mind made easy by their arrival, John sat to focus on his next challenge – the account books. Yet, scarcely a quarter of an hour passed before the two men left the Thornton house, their feet beating a hasty retreat on the dry, packed earth. Fear landed, a heavy stone, in John's stomach. Something was wrong. He hurried to the house.

Margaret sat in the master bedchamber, head in her hands, sobbing heartily. The outburst represented a marked downslide in progress.

"What is it? Whatever has happened?" Anger at the two men burned fierce in John's heart. He would deny them further business. He would organize a boycott.

Unable to answer, Margaret shook her head. So, John knelt before her and took her in his arms, which was all a great mill owner could do for a crying wife. When at last Margaret calmed, John offered her his handkerchief and asked again.

"Our bedchamber is not the one I should be planning," Margaret sniffed. Her husband did not understand; Margaret could read as much in his blue-green eyes and the dark brows drawn together in confusion. "I should be planning a nursery," she continued, her voice breaking on the last word.

"Oh, Margaret," John sighed, his own grief breaking over him like a wave. Standing, he ran a hand over his face, unable, despite the movement, to erase the lines that sorrow carved there.

But Margaret did not see, still consumed with her own hurt. "Fanny sent for your mother," she blurted out the true catalyst for her current state, "She asks that her mother come and stay with her as she is in the family way."

_Fanny is expecting!_ John thought, surprised. "We must congratulate them."

Ashamed by her own failings as a wife, Margaret considered with dread, as she had since the letter arrived, the spectacle that a pregnant Fanny was certain to create throughout Milton. Months of Fanny lording her condition over her less-fortunate sister-in-law. The accoutrements of her condition – clothes, toys, crib, nursery décor – that Margaret would be expected to admire while silently enduring the failure of an empty womb. And forcing her husband to endure the same. The abyss of depression loomed large before Margaret.

She closed her dark eyes to avoid seeing his expression as she spoke, for she had determined the path they must travel to survive this time. "It would do me good to visit my cousin in London."

John steadied himself by placing a hand on the back of his wife's chair. He caught his own astonished look in her vanity mirror. "When?" John was startled to realize the voice speaking was his own.

"Tomorrow morning." The answer was fast and sure.

"So soon," John stated. "Have you no need to arrange the stay with your cousin?"

Margaret shook her head. "Edith writes always that I am welcome."

"If you must go," John finally managed to start. He carefully released his hold on the chair back and ran his hand along his whisker-roughened jaw before continuing, "Julia will accompany you."

"I do not require a chaperone." Margaret's head snapped up in surprise to meet his eyes before she realized her mistake and returned to looking at her lap.

"Your lady's maid," John appeased. "A companion, not a chaperone. I will not be seen as neglecting to provide for my wife." The last two words came out sharp, cutting at the careful calm that the two attempted to maintain.

Margaret nodded and rose, signaling the end of the conversation. "Will you have Edward send Julia up? I must pack."

"I hope the visit will do you good." John left the bedroom but leaned heavily against the outside of the door for a moment before continuing down the stairs. He could not shake a terrible fear that he had kept his wife from leaving the country only to forfeit her to the sorrow that she held close and the cousin who had never approved of him. Downstairs, he barked Margaret's order to Edward before exiting the house, finding little solace in his office except the ability to busy himself.

With Mrs. Margaret Thornton's blessing, Julia had remained at her parent's home until her father fully recovered and so was the last of the servants to return to the house at Marlboro Mills. Now she stood in the kitchen, helping Samantha polish silver for supper and receiving a thorough account of what she had missed in the last few weeks.

"The new missus is taken by sadness at odd moments," Samantha explained, rubbing vigorously at the candelabra in her lap. "You mustn't mention it either to her or to the master; for, she becomes quite cross."

"Aye," Julia responded, to voice her understanding.

"Julia," Edward called, swinging the kitchen door open with one hand. "You are needed to help Mrs. Thornton prepare her luggage for travel tomorrow. Once that is completed, you will pack your own things, as you will accompany her."

"Yes, Mr. Bates," Julia immediately responded, nodding in lieu of a curtsey to avoid dropping the large platter she held. Then she dared to add, "Where are we going? And for how long?"

"To London, Julia," Edward responded, guarding his voice to avoid giving away his distress at this turn of events. "As for the length of time, it has yet to be determined. Pack accordingly. I will have Agnes instruct you on the proper means of blending oneself into the staff of another household." He left, smoothing his mustache repeatedly, as though doing so would return order to the house in which he served.

As soon as the door closed behind the butler, Julia turned to Samantha and the two gaped at one another. "To London!" Julia sighed, "Why just two days ago I told Billy Thompson that I should never leave Milton."

"And to think, it might have been me going, should you have remained at home just two more days," Samantha teased.

"Thank the good Lord I did not," Julia returned, with a wink. She set down the platter and rag, wiped her hands on a clean rag and hurried out of the kitchen, pausing to shoot over her shoulder, "Now, I really must go and pack!"

Once on the back stairs; however, her steps slowed as she considered her good fortune. When Billy Thompson had taken her for a walk in the alley that both of their childhood homes backed, he had brushed his sandy hair to the side and asked her to sit for a minute on the brick ledge behind old Mrs. Andrews' home. Although she hadn't wanted to muss up her second best day dress, Julia had done so and then listened in amazement to her first proposal. All told, it had not been much to speak of, as Billy had stumbled his way through it, twisting his cap and clearing his throat over and over. In addition, to accept would have meant to move with Billy to a country estate where he had gotten a position as gardener. Still, Julia couldn't bring herself to laugh over it with Samantha and instead kept mum about the entire event.

"I dunno what I would'a done in the country," she mumbled to herself, allowing the dialect of Milton through as she typically did not. "Sure an' London is 'nother world from some posh country place." She rushed up the last few steps and down the hall to where her mistress sat waiting.

"Have you never been to London, Julia?" Margaret asked when they were in the midst of packing.

"No, mistress," Julia responded, curtseying as she did despite the heavy petticoats that she attempted to fold.

"The climate is slightly warmer than Milton and it rains often," Margaret explained, finding that chatting kept her thoughts from her husband and all she would be leaving behind. "Should you have any questions, I would be happy to answer them."

"Yes'm," Julia replied, curiosity bubbling forth at the opportunity. "Is London much larger than Milton?"

Margaret laughed, a sound the house had heard little since the illness first settled over Milton and not at all since – well, it would not do to dwell on that. "Have you never traveled from Milton?" Margaret asked. When Julia answered that she had not, Margaret explained, "While much larger than a country town like that surrounding my home at Helstone, Milton is not large so far as industrial towns are concerned and could be swallowed up many times over in a true city, such as London."

That night at dinner, Hannah bit her tongue almost through in keeping her silence. She looked first at her son, who had offered only the most cursory of explanations for Margaret's sudden journey. Hannah had needed no reason. Fanny's letter and Margaret's decision could be no coincidence. Now, John sat hunched as if in pain, a characteristic so unlike him and so like his father in those final days that Hannah's stomach knotted. Then, Hannah turned to Margaret, who had not offered two words together and stirred but did not eat the roasted chicken and potatoes. Would they truly allow distance between this hurt? Hannah saw the danger there. Yet, her son had asked that she remain silent on the matter. And so she would.

Excusing herself early, something Hannah typically scorned as the epitome of bad manners, she took her needlework up to her room. There, she stabbed the cloth so forcefully that she twice drew blood from her unfortunate fingers.

Margaret followed suit, retreating to her bedroom and retiring early to rest before her journey. She pretended sleep some hours later when John entered the room, changed, and climbed into bed. In the shadowy darkness, he brushed a hand over his wife's silky hair and sighed heavily before turning away to settle in for the night.

The next morning came quickly for all involved in the transaction. At Margaret's insistence, John did not accompany her to the train station. She claimed to prefer a private parting but also wondered if she would truly be capable of boarding the train while her husband looked on with sad eyes of the deepest blue.

In the end, John simply gathered Margaret close in the bedroom and kissed her softly. "Be safe, Margaret," he told her, "and come home." Such an odd turn of phrase – not 'come home soon', which Margaret had expected and for which she had even prepared a vague answer. Then it was time and John followed his wife down the carpet-clad stairs and out to the carriage for a final chaste kiss on the cheek.

Margaret climbed into the carriage, drawing her small gloved hand from her husband's despite his firm grip. John was forced to move aside in order for Julia to enter the carriage. He never took his eyes from his wife, but despite the shaded interior of the carriage, he could see that she stared resolutely forward. Julia, on the other hand, turned at an awkward angle to shoot more than one smile towards the rest of the household staff, her excitement evident at the journey ahead.

As the wheels of the carriage began to turn, John saw the back of his wife's head in the rear window. 'Look back,' John thought, in sudden desperation, 'Look back at me.' She did not.

Once the black carriage disappeared through the stone gate and his mother and the staff returned to the house, John stormed up to the mill office, slamming the door and pounding his fist into the paneled wall. Sinking down into his chair, John rubbed his left hand over his red and aching knuckles. He might have spared himself the pain, as it not only failed to distract him from the wrenching pain of his breaking heart but also reminded him of the way Margaret had worried over his bruised and split knuckles after the fight at the mill.

_Margaret waited there, her face grave in concern. "Are you hurt?" she asked the instant he entered the small room, rising from his chair and moving to him._

…

_He held up his right hand for her inspection and she captured it gingerly in her own, examining its surface solemnly. The entire appendage was swollen; purple bruises mottled its surface and scabs of dried blood snaked in and around the bones of the knuckles. "You should have this looked at by a doctor," she urged, turning her worried face up to him._

…

"_Let us at least go back to the house where I can wrap it," Margaret persisted, tracing a finger softly over the broken skin._

…

_She took first one hand and then the other in soft fingers, washed them gently, rubbed salve into the bruised and broken skin, and wrapped them carefully in strips that she tore from the rags. _

"Oh, Margaret!" He ached for her presence and the touch of her soft skin. John pressed his fist to his mouth to choke back the dry sobs that burst forth.


	20. Chapter 20

~Chapter 20~

Julia stood at the train station, wondering how she had ever thought she could climb aboard an iron monster spewing smoke and embers. She had, of course, seen trains come and go with such regularity that she did not even notice their rumble or shrill shriek; yet, to ride within it seemed another thing entirely. She nervously tucked a wisp of sunshine yellow hair behind her ear and tugged her bonnet, borrowed from Samantha since she had only one outside of her uniform and that one had been stepped on by her baby brother last week, into place.

"Come, Julia," Margaret said, her irritation evident at finding her 'companion' more than a few steps behind. She entered the compartment and closed her eyes, leaning back and wishing away the miles that would take her far from this place and the heartache it represented.

Unable to create an excuse that would remove her need to board the train, Julia swallowed hard against the fear in her throat and followed the mistress. Settling their traveling bags, Julia sat and held her breath, bracing herself for the moment that the train would move. Finally, with a screech and a hiss and the rumble of wheels turning, the large train began to ease away from the station. Soon it had gained such speed that Julia forgot her fear and watched in dizzy fascination as Milton disappeared and other towns and bits of open land in between flew by.

Some six hours later, as Julia's stomach began to growl insistently, she eyed the basket lunch that Molly had prepared. Mrs. Margaret Thornton had placed it on the seat beside her, but almost immediately fell asleep and leaned heavily on the arm she had propped on the basket lid. The train slowed yet again, an event un-noteworthy enough until the conductor called, "London, London, London!" Her hunger not quite forgotten, Julia nevertheless began to gather items to carry from the train car, hoping that the noise would wake her mistress. Mrs. Margaret Thornton did not so much as stir.

"Mistress," Julia called. Still no movement from the sleeping woman. Reluctantly, Julia reached out a hand and patted the sleeping woman's knee.

Margaret woke to a light touch and realized with a start that the train was still. Much like a sailor after a long voyage, she felt oddly off balance. "Have you everything," she asked Julia, stifling a yawn behind her hand and then straightening her bonnet.

"Aye," Julia answered, lifting her hands to display the basket and satchel she held.

Margaret nodded in approval and motioned that the two should disembark. "We must find a Hackney carriage, as I did not forewarn my cousin of our arrival," Margaret explained, stepping forth from their car.

"Miss Hale –er – Mrs. Thornton!"

Margaret turned towards the sound of her name and to her surprise found Henry Lennox waving his kerchief in her direction.

"Henry," she cried, "Whatever brings you here?"

"Your husband," he responded, hoping that the word did not sound as it tasted in his mouth – sour, "sent a man ahead on the evening train to ensure you safe passage to my brother's home."

Margaret smiled at her husband's thoughtfulness, blinking back tears. In the next moment, though, she almost laughed as her mind supplied an image of John's face should he ever learn that his action brought Henry Lennox to serve as rescuer.

"Shall we go?" Henry asked. Margaret took his proffered arm in answer.

As the Lennox carriage began its journey through London, Margaret wondered absently if London had become dirtier or if time had falsely colored her memories of the city. Indeed, if the buildings and roads were smaller and the landscape more hilly, she might have believed herself returned to Milton. When at last they reached the city home of Captain and Mrs. Lennox, Margaret's stomach twisted in sudden excitement. _Now_, she thought,_ I will begin to be happy._

And for an evening she was. Edith greeted Margaret in the front room, filling Margaret's arms immediately with an uncomfortably overdressed Sholto. The child cried at being handed over to someone unfamiliar. Pulling him close, Margaret rocked and soothed him, reveling in his warm weight and sweet baby smell.

"Come, Margaret," Edith urged. "You must have had a long journey. Sit and I will tell you everything; for, while you have been in the wilds of the north, much has happened in civilization."

Margaret ignored the cut at Milton and, through it, her life there. She glanced at Julia, standing uncertainly in the doorway. "My maid…" she began.

"Brownstein," Edith called, waving at her maid, who stood statue-still in a corner. "Show Miss H – Mrs. Thornton's maid to the kitchen and have Hendrick instruct her."

Dismissed, Julia followed the tall maid in crisp livery down the basement stairs to the kitchen. There, she received a rundown of the household and was assigned a room before being shown to Mrs. Thornton's bedroom, where she unpacked, shaking the wrinkles out of the clothing.

Back in the front room, Margaret found her mind drifting as Edith recited the latest news. She cared nothing for the drama and dirty secrets that Edith enjoyed. Finally, a yawn that Margaret tried to hold back caught Edith's notice.

"You are exhausted," her cousin declared. "Brownstein will show you to your room." Edith motioned again to the maid, who had returned to her station. "Lie down until you are summoned for supper," Edith insisted.

As Margaret lay alone in the bed, her thoughts turned to her husband, who tonight would lie alone in their bed. Tears began to slip one by one from under her closed lids, running down the sides of her face and dampening the pillow. When the time came to rise, she felt less refreshed than when her rest had begun.

Although Margaret had not yet been gone from Milton for an entire day, John felt her absence with every breath. Despite usually not seeing his wife before the supper hour, the knowledge of her absence ballooned in his mind, ruining his attention. He stayed late at the mill, though, unable to face the empty place at the dinner table and in his heart.

The next week dragged on so for Margaret. She found no peace in the parties and outings that Edith contrived for them. Naturally, she loved her cousin and appreciated the time together. Yet, walks through the luxurious shops and stops at fancy tea rooms only served to accentuate how entirely Margaret's temperament did not mesh with London society. She gave coins to the beggars on street corners, despite Edith's protests. She simply could not fathom how one bolt of white linen differed so from another that they must spend near to half an hour discussing the merits of each before deciding on neither. Yet, the most pressing source of her discomfort came from the continued biting remarks that Edith made towards Margaret's home and husband.

"It is far superior to any cotton," Edith stated in the draper's, holding up both bolts of linen.

"Civilization has its price," Edith insisted, at Margaret's gasp over the cost of tea and biscuits in one tea room.

"Gentlemen are surely more prevalent in the south," Edith declared, as one such man held yet another door for the two ladies. "In fact, I have yet to find proof that the species inhabits the northern climate."

Rather than convince Margaret of the need to remain in London, as Edith intended, these statements increased Margaret's longing for Milton and all who inhabited it, most especially one gentleman in particular. _But I cannot go back_, she reminded herself.

Thus, it was no large disappointment when Edith discovered that General and Mrs. Andrews simply could not extend their invitation to stay at their country home to another individual, despite her relation to Captain and Mrs. Lennox.

"It is no large matter, Edith," Margaret assured her pouting cousin over tea with the Captain and Henry. "Two days of quiet would like as not do me good."

"Margaret," Henry suggested, setting his empty teacup on the sideboard, "I have these two days off and since Edith will be unable entertain you, perhaps we might visit Helstone. I have made the acquaintance of a gentleman you might know, a Mr. Brown, who lives at Stonley Abbey near to your parents' home."

"Mr. Brown attended my father's parish," Margaret responded, holding her cup out to Edith to be refilled.

"He has asked me repeatedly to stay with him whenever I am in the area. We might stay the night there."

Margaret smiled, delighted. "Oh, Henry, it would be the greatest comfort to go home, even if only for a visit. You are too good!"

"Yes, Henry," Edith added, "you show your kindheartedness at every turn." It really was such a shame that Margaret had married that Milton man instead of dear Henry. She pursed her lips, wondering what damage a good divorce might do to Margaret if mended quickly by new marriage.

"Then it is settled," Henry stated. "Tomorrow we away to Helstone."

That night, Margaret could scarcely sleep from excitement at the prospect of returning home. She just knew it would lift her spirits as London never could, despite her cousin's best efforts.

And yet, it did not. Walking through Helstone, Margaret had thought to be surrounded by happy memories but was instead assaulted by the many small changes that together transformed the hamlet into a strange place with only hints of familiarity. The new parson and his family had so modified her family home that it, especially, alienated Margaret. She placed a smile upon her face to avoid disappointing Henry and agreed to his suggestion of a picnic lunch on the grounds.

"Go and tell the cook at Stonley Abbey to make up a picnic lunch and return with it here," Mr. Lennox ordered Julia. She turned at once to do as she was bid, but once out of sight could not help but stop for a moment to stroke the rich green grass. It never grew so thick and bright in Milton and, had London a blade of the stuff, Julia had not seen it. She thought of Billy Thompson and the estate where he worked. Perhaps she had been foolish to turn him down when he offered her a chance at this other life. Straightening, she continued on, but her eyes soaked in the clear blue sky and lush landscape.

As the maid hurried off, Henry steered Margaret through the remnants of her mother's garden. "Edith has pressed upon me the news of your recent unhappiness," he stated. At Margaret's gasp of surprise, he quickly added, "you must not be cross with her; Edith knows of my continued feelings for you and wished to assess whether I would be willing to marry a divorcee."

At that, Margaret pulled her arm from his grasp. "Edith overreaches," she declared, "I am not, nor will I ever be, a divorcee."

"Will he not release you then?" Henry asked, attempting to retake Margaret's arm, but she would not allow it.

"I will not release myself," Margaret returned, her face burning passionately at the very thought. "Although the Church of England sanctions divorce, my father never did."

Henry nodded, accepting it. He seated himself on a nearby bench and patted the spot beside him. Margaret, however, chose the bench opposite him. "I have a second offer," Henry stated, attempting to control the pace of his words, "I still love you and would be willing to overlook your marriage and take up relations with you." Shock would not allow Margaret to form words. "We could live separately, I would provide you a place in London near your cousin, so as to avoid scandal."

Margaret could take no more. "Henry," she interrupted, raising her hand to silence him. "You have taken leave of your senses. Not only would I never demean myself in that manner, but I love and respect my husband. The pain that I escape has not erased it."

"So again you flirt for my attention and then deny me?" Henry snarled, his expression twisting into one foreign and frightening to Margaret. Yet, his words were so outrageous that her own anger overcame fear.

"Flirt?" Margaret scoffed. "You are the brother-in-law of my cousin and, I had thought, a dear friend. Considering your words this day, I can no longer name you as the latter. You are a fool if you truly believed my affections anything more."

Henry opened his mouth to respond, but Margaret rose. "We are finished," she declared. "I am returning to the house and in the morning my maid and I will return by train to London. You shall not accompany us." She turned and marched in the direction that Julia had taken.

Furious, Henry stormed off. His thoughts flew wild at having again been humiliated and denied. This treatment would not go unpunished. Margaret Hale – Thornton – whoever – carried herself far above her true station, acting as highborn as her cousin when, in truth, her station had been raised even by that ridiculous marriage. By the time he came upon Stonley Abbey, having taken a circuitous route, his plan was formed. Entering by the back way, he startled the lower servants but managed to find Margaret's maid. "Come with me," he demanded, and a frightened Julia found herself following.

He located the back stairs and climbed the tight staircase to the bedrooms. When Julia balked at entering Henry's bedchamber, he grabbed her roughly by the arm. "If you resist," he hissed, "I will inform your mistress that you entered my bedchamber and attempted to seduce me. You will lose your place and your reputation in one move."

Terrified, Julia knew he was right. She stepped into the room, trembling when Mr. Lennox shut the door decisively. "Undress," he barked.

Fingers fumbling, Julia nevertheless removed her uniform and, at his next order, lay on the bed. She closed her eyes and dug her fingernails into her palms, unable to stop the whimpering tears that followed. When the man had finished, she dressed and was about to quit the room when he turned from the washstand.

"Take the sheets," Henry ordered. "You've bloodied them. Be sure to have more sent to my room." The maid gathered them quickly and rushed out.

Julia dropped the sheets in the laundry pile, glad not to meet another of the household staff along the way. She helped herself to bed linens, left them outside Mr. Lennox's room for another maid to find and then made her way to the room she had been assigned, where she sat frozen on the hard mattress for some time. A knock at the door startled her so that she jumped to her feet.

"You are wanted by Mrs. Thornton," the housekeeper stated.

"Aye," Julia responded. She splashed water on her red eyes and straightened her cap before going forth.

"Julia," Margaret called, when her maid knocked softly and entered her bed chamber, "we need - " Here she broke off, having just glanced up at the girl. "What happened?"

"It is nothing, miss," Julia responded, her heart pounding in her throat as her mind returned to what had happened.

"Homesickness?" Margaret guessed, thinking of how alien she had found Milton after living in Helstone all her life.

"Aye," Julia lied, although it was not quite a falsehood, for she could think of no place farther from this one and the man who had stolen her virtue.

"We must pack," Margaret stated, finishing her earlier sentence. "We leave in the morning."

"For Milton?" Julia asked, her tone revealing the longing she felt for that place. She pulled the trunk from its place at the foot of the bed towards the wardrobe in which Mrs. Thornton's belongings hung.

"Nay," Margaret answered, sorry that she had not been clearer. "To London."

They reached London at the two o-clock hour, having left Helstone with nary a backwards glance from either passenger at seven in the morning. Julia found an unaccompanied Hackney carriage and gave the Lennox address. She glanced about frequently while they waited for the driver to load the trunk. The possibility that Mr. Lennox had caught the same train sent her stomach churning. Yet, even had he not, he would likely return to his brother's house this day.

Margaret expected to find the house empty of all but household staff. The butler, however, greeted her with the news, "A Mrs. Hannah Thornton awaits you in the parlour." Worried at her mother-in-law's unexpected visit, Margaret hurried into the room, twisting a piece of her skirt between two fingers.

"Margaret," Hannah greeted her daughter-in-law, rising and shaking her hand in the customary Milton greeting.

"Is anything wrong?" Margaret asked.

"Aye," Hannah responded, carefully tasting her words before sending them forth, "You are separated from your husband."

"I visit my cousin," Margaret responded, blushing at the insinuation.

"Be that as it may," Hannah went on, "my son is – " She struggled for a word that would not emasculate her son. _Crushed, no. Mourning, no. _" – not himself," she finally finished, unsatisfied her selection. Hannah gathered Margaret's gloved hands in her own in a rare display of feeling and said, "Tell me you are happy here, Margaret, and I will leave; for, my son would trade his own happiness for yours."

Margaret could not form the lie. She felt again the sorrow that had descended at the thought of John, her husband, alone. He was sure to take all the world's cares on his shoulders, as he so often did, but had no one with whom to find comfort.

"I want to return to my husband." The words burst from her, having dwelt unspoken within since she had first entered this house.

Hannah squeezed the dear girl's hands, a smile taking shape on her usually stern lips and lighting her dark eyes. "Let us go," she said. And so they did. Once Margaret had written and left a letter for her cousin, the trunk had been placed again on a carriage and the three headed for the train station, where they purchased tickets for the four o'clock train north. Then, the two Mrs. Thorntons settled on a bench in companionable silence with Julia standing nearby.

"Margaret!" Henry started, surprised to see her at the station and more shocked by the woman beside her. From Edith's description, it was sure to be Mrs. Hannah Thornton.

"Mr. Lennox," Margaret responded, her voice and her nod of recognition civil but cold.

Standing nearby, Julia felt her head spin at the sound of the man's voice. Every fiber of her being screamed to begin running and never stop. What if he should accompany them to Milton? There would be no open space in the train car except the seat beside her. Julia felt tears of terror begin to prick her eyes. But no, he continued on his way. Yet, might he not come another time? How had she thought herself safe in Milton?

When at last the train stopped before the dark station in Milton, Hannah sent Julia for two carriages, explaining to Margaret that she had sent her things ahead of her to the home of Mr. and Mrs. Watson accompanied by a letter in which she had written that she would arrive in the night or the following morning. Margaret felt only the slightest sting at the reminder of Fanny's condition, her mind consumed with the need to see her husband. She watched eagerly as the tiny houses and cobblestone streets fell behind them. At last, they entered the mill yard and Margaret left her belongings and Julia behind in her haste to reach her husband.

Julia watched the trunk unloaded, thanked the man, and went to find Mr. Bates so that the driver might be paid.

Edward stood in surprise as the kitchen door swung open, expecting Mr. Thornton, as all the staff were abed at this late hour. At the sight of Julia, he smiled. The mistress had returned! His smile disappeared, however, when, after explaining the Hackney driver's need of pay, the girl stopped him with a hesitant hand on his sleeve.

"Mr. Bates," Julia continued, "I also need to tell you that, as of this very moment, I am resigning my position." She could not meet his eyes and instead studied her folded hands.

"Why, Julia," Edward exclaimed, "I am surprised at that."

"I have received a proposal," Julia offered by way of explanation, hoping that Billy's offer still stood and that she would soon find herself far from anyone with connection to Mr. Henry Lennox.

"You will still be expected to finish out the next two weeks," Edward declared, his authority returning now that his surprise had passed.

"I cannot."

The two words sounded ragged and Edward realized with a start that tears welled in the girl's eyes. He regretted his tone. "The two weeks can be waived," he amended, "but, Julia, are you quite certain that this is what you wish? If your family or your suitor is using undue pressure – "

"Nay, Mr. Bates," Julia interrupted, "I want to go. Please, I would go now." So, he let her, but the separation would nag him off and on for the rest of his days.

Julia walked home in the moonlight, pleased to find Billy Thompson on his stoop chewing the stem of a weed. "Will you still have me?" she asked, with no introduction.

"Aye."

It was all the answer she needed. And once the bans were read and the two married and set off to their new home, she did not plan to look back.

Margaret almost ran up the burgundy carpeted stairs to the master bedroom, only to find it empty. She walked back down, understanding at once his location when she noticed the light spilling out under the closed library door, staining the floor.

When the click of the latch sounded, John called, "I am not long from bed, Edward, but I can attend myself."

"John."

He knew the voice and came at once to stand before her. "Margaret." She was real. And here. He drank in the sight of her from the carefully twisted chestnut hair to the tips of her shined black shoes. A dozen emotions passed over his face. Margaret read them all.

"I am come home," Margaret stated, simply, "for good."

One step, no great distance, and she was in his arms, pressed against his chest, encircled in his protection and love. She pulled back only enough to wrap her arms around his neck and draw his dark head down for a kiss. Her husband obliged with more than one, his lips burning as they sought to touch every bit of exposed skin. When she moaned, he lifted her in his arms with a triumphant laugh and carried her up the stairs to their bed chamber.


	21. Epilogue

Thanks to all who have read, reviewed, etc. It's been a journey to finish this! But now it's time to get back to characters of my own making. Again, thanks!

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><p>~ Epilogue ~<p>

A little over one year after Fanny Watson birthed a three and a half kilogram boy that the new parents named Cornelius William, Hannah Thornton noticed a swelling under her chin. At first, she accounted it to her teeth, which had only grown worse with age. In the next month, however, it pressed so that her breathing became laboured and her voice sounded perpetually hoarse. When Margaret insisted that her mother-in-law seek treatment, Hannah agreed far too readily for Margaret's comfort. Dr. White arrived on the scene with a shotgun full of remedies. He bled, purged, blistered, applied mercury and, in the end, failed to affect the growing tumor in any way. It was to be her death sentence.

John reacted as though kicked in the gut. It was Margaret who rallied as Hannah weakened, hiring on a nursemaid, but then insisting on completing most of the care herself. She convinced John to hand over more authority to Williams and to spend these last days of his mother's life by her side.

"You must not leave him again," Hannah rasped one morning, when Margaret alone kept watch at her bedside, "he cannot live with neither you nor I."

"I never will," Margaret promised, taking her mother-in-law's cold hand and holding it for a moment until it warmed. Then, tucking it under the covers, Margaret met Hannah's dark eyes and spilled forth her secret, "I carry his child."

At this, Hannah lifted herself off her pillow, a movement that she had not managed in over a week. "And you have told no one?" she fumed, "You risk your life."

"The doctor knows," Margaret assured her, "but –"

"John must not know," Hannah stated with sudden understanding, sinking back onto the pillow but gripping Margaret's arm like a vice. "He would obsess over your health as well as my own. He would place all his hope in my living to see the child."

"Perhaps you will," Margaret posited, but one look at her frail mother-in-law exposed the falsehood of that statement. "Or perhaps the child will not," she continued, her voice soft, as if to keep the babe in her womb from hearing.

"Can you carry that burden alone?" Hannah demanded.

"Aye," Margaret responded, her voice still soft, but certain and her brown eyes flashing. "I am not who I was then and I will carry that weight, if needed, to spare my husband."

Worn from the exchange, Hannah released Margaret's arm, nodded in acceptance, and moments later fell asleep.

That night, John returned from the mill, where he now spent barely one full day a week, and immediately traveled the stairs to visit his mother. Entering the room, he found himself still unexplainably shocked at Hannah's appearance. Her hollow cheeks, sallow skin, and the large growth on her throat transformed her into someone unknown. And yet, when her dark eyes opened, as they did now, and greeted him with silent love, he knew her.

"John," she croaked.

"Mother," he answered, taking the chair beside the bed and leaning down to kiss her pale cheek.

She patted his hand, "When I am gone –"

"Do not speak so," John interrupted, removing his hand from hers and running it through his black hair in agitation. Margaret entered the room with a knock, carrying a tray of supper. He latched on to his wife's eyes as though she would keep him from drowning in this unforgiving sea of reality.

"When I am gone," Hannah began again, "You are to give Fanny first pick of my belongings, as she is my daughter. I have no worries for Margaret's inheritance. Fanny will leave most everything to Margaret, as my daughter has not, as of yet, relinquished her love of colored baubles and foolish patterns, of which I have none."

"Of course," Margaret answered, as her husband could not speak. He had risen from the chair and paced over to the window to hide his unshed tears.

"Agnes must be kept on," Hannah continued, although she panted at the exertion of spending so much breath, "or found a position of equal prominence with a woman much kinder than myself."

"Mother!" John spun from the window, his voice sharp and hurt. He could not bear to hear her speak ill of herself. Not this woman who had worked herself to the bone and denied herself all comfort following her husband's cowardly end in order to return her children to their rightful place in society. Not this woman who had brought Margaret back to him, when she might as easily have spoken ill of her son's choice and returned to her place in the spotlight of his days.

"Oh, John," Hannah soothed, "I am sorry." And she was, for wounding him now and in the past through her words and actions towards the woman he loved. "I am tired now," she declared, "let me rest."

John shut the door gently behind him and turned to find his wife waiting. Margaret led him down the hall to their bedroom, sitting on the bed and patting her lap. John kicked off his boots and lay with his head in Margaret's lap. There, with her stroking his hair, John released the flood of tears that had threatened to erupt all day. "My mother, my mother," he murmured.

"I know," Margaret soothed, and he found some small comfort in the fact that she did.

Two days later, Hannah left the world behind with a quiet sigh. Margaret, sitting and darning beside her mother-in-law, did not even realize the significance of the sound until no breath followed. She folded the woman's arms over her chest and brushed back an errant string of still-dark hair.

"I should have been there," John cried, when Margaret found him in the library, seeking reprieve among the volumes.

"Do you not think she chose this, your absence, so as to spare you the memory?" Margaret asked, sure that she would have to remind him of this over the following days and months. She gripped his arms and stood close so that he could not but look at her.

John met his wife's deep brown eyes, reading in them the love and pain that she shared. "Thank God I have you," he burst, crushing her to him.

And he did; Margaret stood by him through all the preparations, the wake, and the funeral that followed. She shielded him from conversation with the many townspeople who came to offer their condolences. She insisted that he take a few days off and then that he return to work rather than mope about the house. She brought him lunch daily, letting him talk when he wanted and letting silence fall when he could not speak.

"I had forgotten how large this house is with only two," John murmured one night as they sat in the library, he at the end of the chaise with Margaret lounging beside, leaning against his shoulder and reading.

"It will not long be so," Margaret offered, seizing the opportunity that he presented.

"What?" John turned to look at his wife, dislodging her so that she sat up to avoid falling. "Are we expecting company?" He could not consider for a moment allowing another to fill his mother's chair.

She blushed, closing her book and forcing her eyes back to his. "In five months, I will bear your child," she glowed.

So astonished was John that he did not move or speak.

"Are you happy?" Margaret prompted.

"Overjoyed," he clarified, released by her words. He pulled her onto his lap and placed a hand on her stomach as gently as though it were glass. "Are you well?" he asked, concern washing over him.

"Yes," she assured.

"If only, my mother –" Here he stopped. His child would have no grandparents.

"She knew," Margaret assured him.

"Thank you," he sighed and let his head fall so that his forehead met hers, consumed with joy and sorrow all at once. Margaret felt it, too.

When the household received quiet word of Margaret's condition, Edward shadowed the mistress everywhere. He watched for signs of unsteadiness, for expressions of pain, and especially for footprints of blood. Every time the mistress walked the stairs, Edward watched with bated breath.

No such tragedy occurred. Margaret grew round and tired but radiated with joy. She insisted that there was no need for her husband's careful care but submitted to his conditions: that she take the carriage if she were to venture beyond the millyard without him even to visit the Boucher and Higgins family, that she rest each afternoon, and that she send for him if she felt any change at all in her condition.

A knock at his office door sent John Thornton jumping to his feet, as he had since Margaret's confinement began. Unlike all the previous times when his anxiousness had proved unfounded, this time it was Edward standing at the door.

"Please, sir," Edward said, ringing his hands, "it's the mistress."

"Go for the doctor," John barked. He lunged past the poor butler, down the stairs and across the yard. He almost vaulted up the stairs to their bedroom but thought better of it and instead ran to the library, where he found his wife lying on the yellow chaise.

"You should be in the bedroom," he frowned, but paused at the look on her face, "Is it – ?"

"I think it is time," she answered, her face flushed and her brown eyes wide with uncertainty. So John helped his young wife up the stairs to their bedroom and helped her settle there, dismissing Samantha's attempt to help with a wave.

When Dr. White arrived, he disagreed. "You are in labour, Mrs. Thornton," he stated, with a slight chuckle, "but it is still early stages. I will be on my rounds and return in several hours."

"You will not," John growled, stepping before the doorway, as if to bodily keep the man.

"John!" Margaret gasped, reddening at his rude behavior. "I am sure the doctor knows better than we how long this –" She broke off as a contraction gripped her.

"You see?" John protested, motioning to his wife, his face growing pale at the sight of her pain.

"I do see," the doctor explained. "I see that your wife has had but three pains, including this one. I assure you that I can be about my rounds and back before she progresses to the point of birthing."

Not quite mollified, John nevertheless allowed the man to find his way out. "How are you?" he asked Margaret, coming to sit beside her.

"I want my mother," she admitted.

"And I mine," he answered, picking up her hand, opening it, and placing a kiss on her palm, "but we have each other."

"Aye," Margaret answered, clinging to his hand.

Thus, when, hours later, the labour progressed and the good doctor returned, John refused to give up his place at his wife's side.

"A man does not remain in the room," Dr. White argued, keeping his voice gentle but firm, "it simply is not done."

Margaret cried out yet again as a contraction began.

"And yet, I am not leaving," John responded, his blue eyes flashing with anger, "Now care for my wife or I will find someone who will."

And so it was both mother and father who witnessed the first gasping breath, the piercing cry, and the doctor's announcement, "You have a daughter." Once Margaret and the child had been cleaned, examined, and found in good health, the doctor excused himself and the new family was alone.

Margaret tore her eyes away from the tiny, red-faced new life that she and her husband had created.

"Hannah Maria," John breathed, brushing a finger through the dark downy fuzz atop their child's head. Margaret saw in John's dear face the same emotions that she was sure her own displayed: joy, sorrow, fear, and amazement. It was all part of this wild, strange, miserable feeling that accompanies life and love.


End file.
